


Magophony

by Jaetion



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe, Blood Magic, Dragon Age Big Bang, Flower Crowns, Fluff, Gen, M/M, Mage!Hawke - Freeform, Magic-Users, Male-Female Friendship, Post-Game(s), Slash, Tevinter Imperium
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-09
Updated: 2014-05-09
Packaged: 2018-01-24 01:54:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 31,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1587356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaetion/pseuds/Jaetion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fill for the 2014 Dragon Age Big Bang.  Following the destruction of Kirkwall’s chantry, Tristan Hawke, Merrill, and Anders travel together to Tevinter. As they make their way across the countryside, they join a caravan of renegades who are hoping to find haven in the city of Marothius.  Eagerly awaiting them there is Magister Melusina, who has plans for the Champion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to my dude. Thank you for reading, re-reading, making dinner, and generally being awesome through all my early mornings and late nights of writing. I couldn't have done it without you. I love you!
> 
> Art by the amazing Jambandit can be found on tumblr: http://jambandit.tumblr.com/post/85168756963/hawke-sighed-and-stood-up-slowly-cracking-his

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gorgeous piece is by [Jambandit on tumblr](http://jambandit.tumblr.com/) and the original post is [here](http://jambandit.tumblr.com/post/85168756963/hawke-sighed-and-stood-up-slowly-cracking-his). Thank you so much for such beautiful artwork!

The party broke up more slowly than Hawke expected and quicker than he hoped, but he couldn’t expect them to follow him forever. Aveline and Donnic went to Highever, and Isabela and Fenris headed to Rivain, and in Antiva, where Isabela’s ship had left them, Varric and Carver made plans for Kal’Hirol.

“I couldn’t have asked for a better muse, Hawke,” Varric said with a smile.

“So I’m good for something,” Hawke replied with a glance at Carver, who was guarding the entrance of the alleyway. When his brother didn’t return a quip, Hawke shook his head and clapped the dwarf on the shoulder. “Goodbye, Varric. It’s been… We’ve had…”

Hawke cleared his throat and Varric said quickly, “I’ll think of something witty for you to say in my epilogue. Besides, I’m sure we’ll run into each other again. The world’s too small for someone like you.”

They said their farewells in the dim light of dawn while the rest of the city was recovering from parties and assassination attempts. But finally Varric and Carver turned away and as Hawke watched, disappeared down Antiva’s winding street. Merrill wiped her face on her cloak and Hawke caught Anders hand in case the mage was planning his own escape, but Anders stayed at his side. With the fights and festivals churning through the streets, no one cared about three shabby figures slipping from docks and then through the gates out of the city. Or maybe Varric had arranged that too, a parting gift of peace and quiet for once so that Hawke, Anders, and Merrill could put some more miles between them and the Chantry, the Crows, the Wardens, and whoever else had connected faces to the crime in Kirkwall.

The hills of Antiva were gentle, rolling swells, the golden wheatfields growing into delicate greens as the forest overtook the farmland. When a wind swept by them, it rippled the crops like they were a vast sunlit ocean. They made good time for a while, especially Merrill who was glad to be in the wilderness again, traveling speedily enough that at night they were too tired to do much more than sleep. Tevinter, they had decided. For history, Merrill had suggested. For the weather, Hawke had said and slung his arm around Anders, who said nothing at all. And none of them said the real reason: the war that Anders had started. The Tevinter magisters were possible allies, and at worst, at least not enemies. Merrill pointed into the distance and Hawke spotted the shadowy clouds of some storm as it blew across the countryside. All roads led to Minrathous, even though the majority of the Tevinter highway had been swallowed by fields. And there, before the gale covered it, was the thin white line of the ruined highway.

“You disguised yourself, didn’t you, Anders?” Hawke asked as they walked. “When you escaped the Circle.”

“Poorly,” Anders said wryly. He studied Hawke, then added, “Beyond dyeing our hair and using aliases, I’m not sure what else we can do. And both of you have such dark hair that I doubt we can even dye it.”

Their robes had been the first to go, hurled into the bay as Isabela sailed them out of the city. And that had been more out of disgust at the blood and smoke-stained things than any attempt at deception. Even Merrill, loathe as she was to completely renounce her heritage, had donned clothes more appropriate for city elves than Dalish. Except for shoes. Their staves had been harder to give up, Hawke thought with a pang of guilt and sorrow at the loss of his father’s staff. Malcolm had carried in through the Free Marches to Ferelden and Hawke had repeated the journey in reverse. But at the first port they stopped in, Aveline had made the compelling argument that with its shape and color, the staff was not just noticeable but practically iconic. Anders had surrendered his, too, and Merrill as well, but that was more out of commiseration than necessity. They’d barely gotten any coin for them; an added insult to injury that Varric promised he wouldn’t include when he finished Hawke’s biography.

The old, wooden rods that served as a staves now barely lived up the the name.

“I’ve always wanted a different name,” Merrill said. She looked up wistfully at the sky as she contemplated. “Daisy was nice, but it wasn’t very impressive. How does Dragon Crusher sound?”

“It suits you,” Hawke told her with a laugh. When Anders chuckled, Hawke’s grin widened in pleased surprise.

*

They had enough provisions to avoid the towns they passed at first. When they noticed more people working in the field, Merrill led them off the path and into the scrubby trees that meandered along the borders of farms. The golden acres of wheat darkened into green vineyards as the trio moved deeper into the country and one night they made their camp a couple of short miles from a massive stone building that crouched protectively over its labyrinth of grapevines. Even from a distance it was an august fortress, with tall walls and towers, and as night fell, Hawke could see pinpricks of light as a patrol began along a parapet.

“I think that’s the Alava Chantry.” Anders said, pointing with a long finger. “For some reason the Circle Tower had a number of books on Antivan wine-country. A gift for the inebriate librarians, I suppose. The sisters there specialize in making heavy reds, and if I remember correctly, are the only vineyard permitted by the Divine to make black wine. Very popular place for pilgrims, unsurprisingly.”

“Black wine? Do they drink it at service? I’m intrigued. I have been wondering if I should be more devout.”

“Maybe your alias should be Brother Tristan,” Merrill teased and he pretended to consider it.

They didn’t press their luck and despite having skeins that could have held wine instead of water, in the morning they left the vineyards. They did risk stopping at a small cluster of houses on the outskirts of the woods, and the last of Hawke’s coins paid for dried meat and bread. Which didn’t last as long as they should have. The story of his life, Hawke thought as he studied the remains of their supplies.

“Right,” he said. “Merrill, I leave this in your capable hands.”

“Who, me?”

“You’re Dalish. You’re one with wilderness.”

“Hawke, I was studying to be a keeper, not a hunter.”

“Right,” he said and launched optimistically to his second option. “Anders. Use your Warden powers.”

“I can only sense darkspawn and other Wardens,” Anders replied with a tired sigh.

Hawke took small comfort in the fact that at least Varric wasn’t witnessing their deterioration. They’d collapsed in a small clearing chosen more out of convenience than comfort or security. As Hawke wrapped up the last bits of greening cheese and hard bread, he looked at Anders, who was frowning at something in the distance, and tried to gauge what his lover - or his spirit - was feeling. Justice must have been appeased by the Chantry’s destruction, at least temporarily, because Anders was being patient to the point of docile. Hawke sighed and stood up slowly, cracking his knees and his back. “We’re three of the greatest mages in Thedas,” he announced in a voice that was unnecessarily loud in the quiet forest. “We can roast a dragon if we felt like it.”

“Let’s start with rabbits,” Merrill advised.

  
  
[by Jambandit on tumblr](http://jambandit.tumblr.com/)  


He reached down to grab Anders’ hand and pulled him to his feet. And then he kissed him, because they could do that now, with only Merrill and the birds there to judge them. Anders’ smile erased some of the weariness from his expression and it made Hawke convinced that they could take down a dragon, even without a warrior or a rogue or any armor between them.

Finding a rabbit took nearly to sundown and the three of them lost it almost instantly in a patch of briar. The second one was easier to spot and Hawke caught it in a blast of fire that scorched it and the surrounding plants into a blackened lump. He prodded the remains before gingerly picking the smoking thing up. “Smells terrible,” he said and dangled it at Merrill.

She wrinkled her nose. “We need to skin it before cooking.”

“It’s been awhile since I had to catch dinner,” he conceded. And then to keep them from thinking of meals back at the Amell estate, Hawke told them about Carver as a young boy and his first hunt, which had eventually involved a bear and a swarm of bees. The night was warm but they made a small campfire anyway; it made them targets but the dark oblivion of Antiva’s countryside was unbearable. Too empty and too quiet, too much of a change from the noise of Kirkwall’s streets. And like it had been since they left the city, their conversation circled back to magic and mages.

“This had to be what Tevinter was waiting for,” Anders said. “It’s an opportunity that the magisters won’t be able to ignore. The country might be at war by the time we get there.”

“Will they be marching or will someone be marching on them?” Hawke asked, not expecting an answer. “Maybe Celene will be too occupied with Kirkwall.”

“I wonder what’s happening in Ferelden,” Merrill said quietly, and Hawke felt Anders shift. She raised her large eyes to him. “You worked with the queen, didn’t you, Anders? What do you think she’ll do?”

“Conscript everyone into the Wardens,” he said with a dry, bitter humor. But then he shrugged. “She may support the mages, actually. She seemed to, anyway, back then.”

Merrill prodded at the small fire with ineffective vigor until the last log collapsed into embers. With a sigh she tossed the smouldering stick into their firepit and then said in a subdued voice, “I hope Aveline and Donnic are all right. I mean, I’m sure they are. Aveline is Aveline, after all. And Donnic is almost as impressive as she is. And he has nice hair on his face. I always thought that.”

Hawke had been ruminating on Aveline and Donnic too, and the rest of their friends. And Charade and Gamlen, and Bodahn, Sandal, and Orana. And everyone else he’d left behind, from Walter and Cricket up to Seneschal Bran. A list of names that Varric could add to the litany of grievances that made up the epilogue of Hawke’s story. Probably wouldn’t be as good a read as some of Varric’s other tales, though.

“What are you thinking about, love?”

“Corin,” Hawke replied instantly. The aging mabari had been another thing Hawke abandoned, a part of the Amell estate that Hawke had left to his cousin. “I hope Charade isn’t overly fond of her boots.”

“I’m sure she’s taking good care of him.” Merrill patted Hawke kindly on the arm. “He’s probably lying in front of the fire with a good bone right now.”

Anders leaned against Hawke, resting his head on Hawke’s shoulder. He stroked Anders’ hair, tucking the long strands behind his ear so he could kiss Anders’ temple, his brow, the arch of his cheekbone. “You’re getting furry,” he said and tugged affectionately on Anders’ beard.

“You are too, sweetheart. I like it.”

“Good, because I don’t think I’ll have the chance to shave anytime soon.”

“I wish I could grow a beard,” Merrill said wistfully. “You’d think there’d be a spell for that. Maybe Tevinter knows one.”

Conversation stayed strictly in the realm of the lighthearted after that, a lie that they participated in for each other’s benefit.

*

When they woke in the morning, the weather was fair and after shaking the dew out of their clothes, the three started their march. After several hours they broke from the path into the woods again for a rest, following the sounds of a nearby stream. Hawke pulled off his boots and rolled his pants up to his knees, then sat with his feet dangling in the cold water. He healed the blisters and bruises, but there was still a low, persistent throb of pain deep in his bones. “Your feet are probably worse off than mine,” he said to Merrill when she squatted beside him. “Here, let me see them.”

“Oh no, they’re happy to be in the grass,” she said and wiggled her toes in the mossy soil. “This is much better than the street. Sometimes I stepped in things that even Varric couldn’t identify.”

Hawke’s response was lost as a blast erupted through the trees, a din that they both recognized at once. A fireball.

Anders. They shot to their feet. Merrill grabbed theirs staves and tossed Hawke’s to him as he jammed his feet back into his boots. She slipped easily between the trees, parting the branches and leaping over the roots with ease, and Hawke crashed along beside her. Anders found them as they approached the road. He grabbed Hawke’s robe and pulled close beside him, then said in a quiet but excited voice, “It’s a mage caravan! They have to be apostates!”

“That fireball-”

“Wasn’t me.” Anders released him and hurried out of the woods.

The smoldering trees framed the scene. A cart and a wooden wagon were pulled by panicking oxen who were bellowing loudly over the cries of the frantic people around them - twenty, Hawke guessed, his eyes quickly scanning that battleground. A few were trying desperately to pull the ox back into the road but with every explosion or scream the animals yanked away. Bandits armed with bows picked off mages with ease while Templars battered back against an onslaught of swords and clubs.

Hawke led and Ander and Merrill fell into step behind him with a deadly efficiency honed in Kirkwall, one of the few things they’d taken with them from the city. Hawke’s first bolt of lightning decimated the row of archers. Merrill slammed her staff to the ground and roots erupting from under the road, grabbing and dragging bandits down as they screamed. Suddenly time seemed to withdraw it’s pressure and Hawke and Merrill’s spells shattered the air as they were cast - Anders’ haste made each movement fly.

It wasn’t joy, but there was a sense of pride, of satisfaction. Hawke spun the wooden staff and then will a yell pulled forth lightning so spectacularly bright that around it the natural world blanched and shook. After that crackling explosion, everything was silent.

The hot wind tossed dry leaves spotted with blood. Merrill released the last prisoners of the twisting roots and the bandits that could retreated, dragging their wounded and leaving their dead. Anders rushed away with his staff still clenched in his hand and then dropped to his knees in the dirt next to a groaning boy. “I need to pull out the arrow before I can heal you. It’ll hurt but not for long. Get ready.”

“And I can heal that,” Hawke said to a Templar. She lowered her shield to reveal blood dripping from under her arm. From behind her helmet he could see her eyes widen in surprise.

“No serah, heal Damase first,” she replied. She cupped a hand around her mouth and called to the nervous faces peering out from behind the wagon, “They’re healers! Damase, come here! Sister Hildegard!”

Under the fresh wounds were older bruises and fractures, and Hawke could feel the knots of poorly knitted scars deep in Ser Damase’s muscles. That the Templar had been subjected to such meager healing surprised Hawke, but it was something to puzzle over later, when his patient was no longer spitting blood onto Hawke’s pants.

The punctured lungs had to be healed first. Hawke worked from the innermost layers outwards. And while behind him, he could hear Anders explain each step of the process to the boy, Hawke just talked. “Poultices are no good, you know. Hard to make, and even harder to make well.”

When he’d finished mending the Templar, a young mage timidly approached with her bloody hand clasping the side of her head. That scrape was quickly healed, as well as the blisters and scratches on her feet. The crowd’s commotion had continued as Anders and Hawke worked, but the cries of fear and pain were changing to exclamations of surprise. More people gathered around and Hawke grinned and shook every hand that was offered. If Varric had been there, the dwarf would’ve had a comment about Hawke’s vanity and the stroking thereof, and Carver would have been happy to voice his own thoughts about how Hawke wouldn’t have made it much farther without his normal diet of adoration.

But most of the attention was split between Merrill, who bent down to look into the faces of the elven children in the group, and Anders, who was still skillfully healing. Anders’ tired smile was still radiant and Hawke felt like he could take on another hundred bandits at least.

It didn’t get completely silent, but the voices quieted as the crowd parted to make way for a woman in a stained Chantry robe. Over her shoulders was a dark traveling cape and the skirt of her robe had been cut to her knees, but the symbol of the blazing sun was clear. Hawke dragged his eyes from it to stare again at Anders, but the other mage was still engrossed with his work. Once again Hawke felt the absence of Varric, who’d be able to tell Hawke if it was irony or just shitty timing - Hawke always got those two confused - but without the dwarf’s advice, Hawke could only do what he usually did in the various messy situations he found himself in: crack a joke and then laugh at it.

“Nice congregation you have here, Sister.”

The woman was probably around fifteen years older than him, with brown hair liberally streaked with gray. Her dark eyes flittered over them before she turned away.

“Thank you, serahs. Please, one moment - Ser Damase, are you all right? Tamar, how is Musa? And where is Tyana - there you are. Are you hurt?” Her breathless inventory completed, the woman finally hurried toward them, wiping her bloody hands on her cloak. “You saved us. I can’t thank you enough. I don’t know what would have happened if you hadn’t been here. I’m Sister Hildegard, from the Circle in Ansburg.”

“Garrett,” Hawke said promptly and shook her outstretched hand. “We’ve always had a knack for perfect timing.”

Anders helped his patient to her feet and then said, “And I’m Frederick.”

“Alerion,” Merrill called out, and then added quickly, “but you can call me… Aly. That sounds all right, doesn’t it? I do like nicknames.”

“Are you… Tevinter mages?” she guessed and then frowned when they shook their heads. “Apostates?”

“That’s us. On our way to Tevinter. Where are you going?” As Hawke looked around, a couple of people echoed “Tevinter.” The faces were thin and sunburnt under the dust and blood. Like the sister, the mages wore the impractical robes from their Circle, though some also had more functional coats or cloaks draped over their shoulders. The Templars were bowed under their heavy armor and while their expressions seemed more curious than menacing, Hawke still felt the prickle of old injuries and painful memories.

Someone had started to pull the oxen back to the road and the wheels ground noisily into movement. An older Templar with a closely cropped beard and thinning gray hair put his arm around the sister to guide her along with the procession. It was only a moment of uncertainty, but Hawke noticed it all the same: they were rogue agents, possibly even abominations, who could disrupt or even destroy the caravan. Hawke wasn’t offended. It’d been the same way in Kirkwall - People regretting instantly the amount of trust they had to put into him and his band of misfits.

“Serahs, will you join us?” Sister Hildegard asked, and Anders and Merrill looked to Hawke, who shook the sister’s hand again to seal the deal.


	2. Chapter 2

There were many questions, but Anders, Merrill, and Hawke answered only a choice few and deflected the rest. Anders’ history was boiled down to “left the Circle,” Hawke announced that he’d always been “on the lam,” and Merrill’s race was a catch-all explanation for any inquiries.

The three of them volunteered to take a watch, but Knight-Captain Roncelin shook his head. “We have a schedule,” he explained. “If you're staying with us, your time will come up in a day a so.”

So instead they joined everyone else by the fire, spreading their blankets. The ox were unhitched and allowed to graze and the wagon and cart were pulled into a semi-circle for protection. The most desirable spots were under them and Hawke watched some of the younger mages squabble over whose turn it was before a Templar broke up the argument with firm instructions.

“Frederick,” Hawke murmured against Anders’ neck as he pulled him closer.

Anders made a pleased noise low in his throat. “What about ‘Garrett?’ Where did you get that name?”

“Always liked it, Freddy.” He cupped Anders’ chin, stroking his lover’s lips with his thumb and then kissed him.

When they pulled apart, Anders mused, “It's something of a paradox, you know.”

“Hm? What is?”

Anders' long fingers slid down Hawke's side until he found the edge of Hawke's tunic. He played with the fraying hem, then pushed it up to get at Hawke's skin. “We're traveling with more people than ever,” he explained, “but we actually have more privacy.”

“So the crowd's a turn on? Good to know.”

Hawke pushed his leg between Anders’ thighs and the worn linen scratched rough and satisfying as Anders squeezed back.

“It feels almost like the continuation of the underground resistance,” Anders muttered. He fell silent and Hawke listened to the lullaby of Ander’s breathing, his steady pulse, and was nearly asleep when Anders said in quiet but hard voice, “There’s so much to be done. Ansburg’s Circle has fallen, but what about the rest of the Free Marchers? All of Thedas needs to be purged of the Chantry and its wretched prisons.”

“Maybe save your glowing trick for another night, sweetheart,” Hawke suggested lightly and pulled the blanket up higher around them.

“Yes, you’re right. Don’t want to get us kicked out already.” Anders exhaled an unsteady breath. “I’ve been trying to focus on the present instead of dwelling on the past or worrying about the future. Justice is… He hasn’t been appeased, Tristan. There’s so much more that needs to be done. But if I concentrate on the here and now, on walking and on you, I can…”

Hawke rubbed his chin into the crook of Anders’ neck. A breeze rattled through the cap and the trees over their heads shook their leaves and sighed. He wondered where Varric and Carver were, if they were hundred of feet underground or sleeping just as poorly under the same waning moon.

“Concentrate on being Frederick,” he said drowsily. “No Kirkwall in his past.”

Or Carver, or Varric.

“I can’t just pretend it didn’t happen,” Anders hissed and tensed under Hawke’s weight.

“I didn’t mean that-”

“Or that it’s over.”

“I know.” Hawke murmured low and soft. Anders relaxed again and stared up into the sky. Clouds smothered out the stars as they passed overhead, traveling from some far off corner of Thedas where fairer weather promised better mornings.

*

The dawn was gray and damp, and Hawke woke to aching knees and a tight back. He stretched as Anders swept his hair back into a ponytail, and he pretended to be fumbling with his boots and coat as he healed his muscles. They rolled up their bed rolls and tossed them into the cart and then Hawke strolled over to Hildegard, who was heating water over the last smouldering remains of the fire.

“You can at least let me help with that,” he said and she stop upright with a small noise of surprise.

“Serah Garrett! Yes, of course, if you could help I'd appreciate it.”

It wasn’t much of a fire spell, more of a rosy glow than an inferno, but Hildegard was pleased with it. Heating water and then helping with breakfast – more leftover stew, some hard bread – was something she could apparently trust him with. He kept the fire going as the rest of the camp woke up, moving slowly and wasting daylight. It was Merrill who got them going, and Hawke watched with amusement as she urged the younger children to their feet.

It was late morning when the caravan finally started moving. They met some people on the road and traded for some wine; a deal that they benefited from far more than the astounded farmers who were too busy asking questions to haggle. After they moved through that hamlet, the attention returned to Hawke, Anders, and Merrill. No one in the caravan had seen a Dalish before, so as soon they got over their initial reticence at her appearance - which didn’t take long; Merrill was hardly intimidating - Merrill had a parade of mages and Templars behind her. The younger initiates barraged her with questions, but Hawke was amused to see even the older Roncelin listen to Merrill’s stories.

“Maybe you should start a school,” he told her when they paused to break their fast. She dropped down gracefully beside him and considered the suggestion.

“I wonder…” She began to speak and then stopped herself, frowning at whatever words she’d swallowed. “Lethallin, you are the closest thing I have to kin, but you’re human. Do you remember what you said to me after… After we killed Marethari? That I could do whatever I wanted? Dalish can’t do that, you know, not really. To be Dalish is to follow a path.”

“But you told me that there are multiple paths to choose.”

“You remember! Yes, there is more than one path and no one is better than the others. The paths used to be so clear, but now when I imagine them, they split and disappear into the forest.” She pulled at a loose thread in her trousers and exhaled a long breath. “Who is my clan now?”

“That’s something you have to decide, Aly,” Hawke said. “But I can tell you that even if they aren’t your clan, they are an attentive audience.”

“I think on it,” she said slowly. After they’d eaten and the procession started again, she fell into step with Anders and Hawke watched as Anders bent down to listen. Rather than joining them, Hawke stayed where he was at the back of the caravan, tempering his urge to get involved when whatever their discussion was turned animated. Some of the mages who had been eavesdropping discretely from a few paces behind Merrill and Anders hurried to get closer to them. As the sun lower, their long shadows cut down through the procession with dark sharpness. Hawke shaded his eye and gazed into the sky, gold as coins or a a stein of dwarven whiskey, and spotted the first twinkles of stars. When they stopped to camp for the night, Merrill and Anders had the whole group clustered around them. Hildegard ceded her podium after a brief prayer and Hawke listened along with the rest as Anders explained the different schools of magic with Merrill’s description of a Keeper’s duty following immediately after. Their explanations were interrupted by questions and the impromptu lesson grew more philosophical as it went off on tangents.

Lessons versus stories. School versus traditions. So a Circle mage, an apostate, and a Keeper walk into a bar, Hawke thought to himself, then lost track of the conversation as he tried to come up with a suitable ending to the joke. If it was based on the three of them, the punch line would be either: they got drunk or they got into a fight.

“What do you think, Serah Garrett?” Sister Hildegard’s voice roused Hawke from his reverie. Maybe she had been accustomed to her audience nodding off during long discourses, because she added, “Your training in magic wasn’t governed by the Circle. Do you view your magic differently than Serah Frederick and Serah Alerion do?”

“It’s a part of who I am, but growing up I didn’t think it defined me any more than an arm or a leg would.”

“But now?”

Anders had asked similar questions, even demanded answers during some of the long, harrowing nights before he’d destroyed the Chantry. Varric had wanted information for the purpose of character development, and even Leandra had inquired in her gentle way how he’d carry on Malcolm’s legacy. “It doesn’t matter.”

She seemed startled by the shortness of his answer so he smiled and added with a roll of his shoulders, “It doesn’t matter what I think, it’s how everyone else sees me. Sees magic.”

There were other opinions: some acolytes thought magic was too dangerous to ever really use (but they still glanced enviously at Anders and Merrill) while other begged to be taught how to shoot lightning at fools; the Templars agreed that magic was a weapon, sometimes too terrible to wield; and Hawke caught Hildegard’s tense face staring at him over the smouldering logs of the campfire.

It was the monotony of travel that wore down Hildegard’s misgivings, though Hawke was on his best behavior. It also whetted her curiosity, and the curiosity of the novices. During a dinner of what was optimistically called stew, she walked over with a mixture or shyness and defiance and came closer than even the most daring acolyte or initiate. She sat down next to Anders; he was apparently the most trustworthy of the three, since at least he had a certified Circle education to temper his abilities.

“I wanted to thank you again. You aren’t like any mages I’ve ever seen.” Hildegard said. She stared into her stew, swirling her spoon around the thin broth. It was probably intended to be a compliment but it was true enough statement. When she spoke again, her tone was flatter. “When we left Ansburg, there were thirty of us. We don't have any healers, and now to have two and a Dalish Keeper... Well, perhaps the Maker hasn't forsaken us after all.”

The memory of the Chantry’s brightness as it erupted flashed into Hawke’s mind. Ander’s lips were pressed into a hard line and he clenched the spoon in his hand so tightly that his knuckles were white.

“Our Senior Enchanter Odile died a few days after the news from Kirkwall reached us. I can’t say she was murdered, but it was… suspiciously good timing. Without her, order disintegrated. The Rite of Annulment hadn't been approved, but some of the Templars thought… Well, we gathered who we could and fled. That first week was so difficult. I hadn't left the city in years, and many haven't been out since they were children. And we didn't have time to pack, not even food. A Warden patrol rescued us from certain starvation, and they arranged the oxen and wagons for us. But in return they conscripted a mage and a Templar.” She stared at the bowl in her lap again as if she hoped to ascertain some message in the remains of potatoes. “It was a very hard bargain.”

“A sacrifice,” Anders added and Hildegard looked up sharply.

“Yes, Serah Frederick, you’re right.”

“You've done very well,” Merrill said gently. “You've come far with so many children and no halla.”

It was clear that Hildegard didn't know what halla were, but the sister took the compliment gracefully. “Thank you, serah. Musa and Rais are the youngest, but they can keep up well with the older children. And Ser Aimery carried Tamar all the way to the Green Dales.”

“Tevinter might not be so welcoming to you or the Templars. You're risking much to travel with mages.” Anders looked intently at Hildegard and Hawke wondered how much interest Justice had in their plight.

Her own expression was just as intense. “We all risk much, serah,” she said coldly. “The Chant steels us against the world’s darkness. We walk towards the Maker’s light: ‘Though all before me is shadow, Yet shall the Maker be my guide.’”

“I'm sorry, Sister. I didn't intend to question you or your motives. Mages have suffered, and we've been alone.” Anders voice was quiet but Hawke could hear the earnestness in it. And then, surprising Hildegard, he finished the verse, “‘I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Beyond. For there is no darkness in the Maker's Light, And nothing that He has wrought shall be lost.’”

Merrill balanced her bowl on her knee and leaned back to look up at the sky. “Not all mages are persecuted. The Dalish don't isolate their mages or preach against them. There are problems in the Dalish of course,” she added quickly and Hawke smiled wryly at her admittance, “but magic has a place with the Dalish. And it serves a purpose.”

Hildegard stood and gave them a polite nod before leaving. Hawke stretched out his legs, his knees aching, and then leaned over to capture Anders' hand. “That could’ve gone worse. I have a feeling the good Sister is trying her hardest to politely dislike us. But we don't have to stay with them.”

Anders shook his head. “They need a healer, love. I want to stay. It feels… Right. Just.”

“If you're doing this, then we're doing it together. Aly, what do you think?”

“You're asking to be polite, but I know you want to stay.” She was still leaning backward, but Hawke could make out the curve of her mouth in the moonlight. “You like having a group of new people to show off to.”

“Casting aspersions on Garrett’s good name.” Hawke shook of his head.

“Carver said that you draw people toward you.”

“That’s called Force magic,” Hawke explained and Merrill threw a handful of grass at him.

The closer they got to the border of Tevinter, the better kept the highway became, with signposts and huge columns the supported roofs stretching over the marble. They walked under the canopy and stared up at it in awe. Ivy had grown up and through it in parts, dangling leaves in bunching tangles, and they were able to catch unwary rabbits who’d made homes in it. The shade was welcome, as intimidating as the ruins could be at times, particularly at twilight. But during the day, everyone, especially the Templars who were still in their armor, welcomed the sight of the white edifices jutting out from the hillside.

Of the three of them, it was Anders that Hildegard approached the most often. Hawke watched with pride as Anders gave instructions to the group, including the Templars who obeyed his directions with only a little shared grumbling. Soon Anders had a parade of mages, and even a Templar, reciting anatomical terms as they walked. Hawke remembered fondly the training Anders had given him in the dark privacy of the clinic and made a mental note to ask for a refresher course when they bedded down for the night.

“Yes, I know that you love him, but if you keep staring like that, your eyeballs are going to fall right out.” Merrill dug her sharp fingers into Hawke’s side as she teased him and he laughed.

They were attacked again by bandits, but the mages in the group had been dutiful students of Merrill, Anders, and Hawke, and they chased off the raiders with few only a couple of minor flesh wounds that were easily healed. Hildegard nervously approved of the tutoring - it was hard to argue with the results - but insisted in adding long speeches about the dangers of possession after every time that Anders or Hawke finished a lesson. Merrill’s teaching was harder to meet with appropriate portions of the Chant, and although it was initially directed at the elven mages, everyone began to listen as she taught Dalish lore.

Fen’Harel cheated a dragon out of her wealth in one story, nearly drowned a clan of elves, and defeated gods. Over the campfire at night Merrill molded the smoke to show the terrible jaws of the Dread Wolf or the delicate antlers of the halla, even the curving bows of June. Hawke held one of the small children on his knee for one of the more harrowing stories and when she sniffled and whined for Merrill to stop, Hawke cast small spells for her, like he had with Carver and Bethany. A long icicle was fun, but she liked the handful of rocks he made better and she threw them at one of the other novices until Hawke put the pebbles into his pockets for safe keeping. Hildegard was willing to oversee much, but after the tale of how Elgar'nan re-made the world, the sister added sermons after Merrill’s tales.

“I didn’t realize how much mages could do,” Sister Hildegard said hesitantly to Hawke as they walked. “The three of you are so powerful, and sometimes it frightens me.”

“You trusted us when we fought the bandits.”

“Yes, but…”

“‘Magic should serve man,’” Hawke quoted with a sigh. “I know. You might not like Tevinter if three apostates get you nervous.”

“I know, and I worry about that. But I’m trying to do what’s right. I must trust in the path that the Maker has set out for me.”

“A crisis of faith? Frederick’s better at quoting scripture.”

“I know. I’ve been trading verses with him. He’s very well educated.”

They walked in companionable silence. The younger mages and initiates’ voices rose as they enacted pretend battles, complete with sticks that they smacked each other happily with. The day was comfortably cool, a western wind off the ocean having taken pity on them, and there were wild olive trees with branches that hung tantalizingly low. Hawke felt like he could wander forever, if Anders wanted it. He raised his staff to knock some olives down for himself and Hildegard, then lay his staff over his shoulders and looped his arms over it.

After a few moments she spoke again, “You, Serah Frederick, and Serah Alerion - Have you known each other for very long?”

“For about seven years,” Hawke replied. It felt like an impossibly long time and simultaneously like it had only been a day before that the Hawke had suffered through the boat ride from Ferelden.

“And you and Serah Frederick…” she stammered.

Ser Aimery leaned down from his perch on the cart. “I don’t see how it’s an issue, myself. I mean, since you’re both men you can’t have mage children, which is all the Circle cared about.”

“Ser Aimery!” Hildegard gasped, and the Templar cleared his throat and pulled on his moustache. He murmured something about how it wasn’t that big of a deal and then snapped the reins to make the ox speed up.

“I’m used to being scandalizing, Sister,” Hawke chuckled and the Sister, still pink and flustered, glared after the retreating cart.

“You’re a patient man, Serah Garrett. You know… This is going to sound presumptuous, but if you want, I would marry you.”

“Breaking your vows for me?” He bent down to her level and then said, lowering his voice flirtatiously, “Well Sister, I’m flattered, but let’s try dinner together first.”

“You’re shameless. But I could have said that better,” she admitted. She spent a few moments unnecessarily wiping her hands on her long skirt then looked up with a sigh. “The Canticles explain so much to us, but there are things that even Sisters question. We do what we can to spread the light of the Maker, using our judgement when necessary.

“As you said, Garrett, ‘Magic exists to serve man.’ Surely that’s true for anyone with special abilities. And if I can aid you, then that’s doing the Maker’s will.”

Joy unbridled rose in Hawke’s chest. “And everyone likes a party.”

*

He found Anders at the rear of the wagon train, arguing over a map with a Templar and a mage. A small elven girl was running frantic loops around them until she crashed into Anders’ legs, and he scooped her up and held the giggling girl upside down without missing a beat in the conversation.

“If the Wardens mapped that area,” he said over her squeals, “it had to be because it’s an entrance to the Deep Roads. The risk is too great.”

“Frederick, the Blight’s been over for years,” Ser Roncelin said and Tyana nodded.

“Yes, which means that the darkspawn are accumulating underground.”

The subterfuge had been more out of diversion than fear, and Hawke wondered how much longer they needed to maintain the masquerade. If they knew Anders’ Warden credentials, they wouldn’t argue.

Hawke took the girl from Anders - Musa, he recognized - and lifted her up onto his shoulders where she promptly began pulling on his hair. “We’ve had a couple of notable run-ins with them,” he explained. “And we know people who were at Ostagar.”

“Serah, Ostagar was ages ago. In Ferelden.”

“There are some things you don’t forget.”

“We still have time to decide. Sister Hildegard will probably have her own opinion to add.” Anders said and rolled up the map to end the discussion then looked pointedly at Hawke. “Did you want to see me about something, love?”

Roncelin and Tyana accepted the map and immediately opened it again as they walked off together. Hawke heard one of them say something about taking on an archdemon before their voices faded.

“Watch it, pup,” he said with a grimace when one of Musa’s small boots kicked hard on his chest. He bounced on the balls of his feet and she started squealing again. “Just how likely are we to run into darkspawn? Can you feel any?”

“No, not right now.” Anders ran his hand through his hair, which was getting shaggy, Hawke noticed and loved him all the more for it. “But that doesn’t mean they aren’t there. I wouldn’t say it’s likely that we’d actually come across them, but it is possible. A day or so of extra travel is manageable - A collision with a hoard of darkspawn isn’t. These people have been through enough without adding that to their journey. Right, sweetheart?”

“Yes!” answered Musa.

“I’m sure Hildegard will agree with you. She’s followed all your advice so far. You’re practically leading this whole outfit.”

“I’ve stolen your job,” Anders teased.

The borrowed robes still hung too loose despite the belt and cinches, but Anders’ haunted look was gone. Justice had to approve of of Anders’ work, or else the spirit had retreated in the face of so much power - mages’ and Templars’. They should have left Kirkwall as soon as they had the gold to, he thought regretfully. Stayed in Chateau Haine, gone back to Ferelden, taken a permanent honeymoon in Antiva. Or he should have been more active in Anders’ mission in the long, dark years leading up to the Chantry’s destruction. Like Merrill had said, the paths had been obscured. Or maybe he just hadn’t been looking.

Hawke smiled. “It suits you.”

“Does it?” Anders’ eyebrows raised in surprise. “But what about you?”

“I told you that as long as we’re together, I’m happy.”

“You’re too good to me, Haw- Garrett. You’ve given me so much.”

“Well,” Hawke mused, “maybe there’s one thing you can do for me.”

“Of course, love. Anything.”

Hawke cleared his throat and Anders waited expectantly. Hawke coughed a bit and Anders raised his eyebrows. Hawke bounced on the balls of his feet again and Musa shrieked gleefully, and Anders leaned against the wagon. “So. Maker, I wish Varric were here. All right. So I was speaking with Sister Hildegard earlier.”

“And?”

“Do you remember when you first told me about Justice? That night I couldn’t stop thinking about you. Carver was furious about that, by the way. I kept us both awake talking about you.” He was nervous in a way that had never happened to him before, and the absurdity of it all wasn’t lost on him. Despite the blood and tears that had marked their years together, he felt like an awkward youth mumbling his affections for the first time and regardless of how ridiculous it was, Hawke couldn’t prevent his words from tangling. “I should’ve done more and there are probably a fair amount of things I shouldn’t have done at all, but you’ve been with me. And frankly you’re stuck with me. So Sister Hildegard, she offered - and it’s probably not binding, but in any event… Andraste’s ass. Here it is: I love you. And Sister Hildegard will marry us, if you’ll have me.”

“I think you should put down Musa,” Anders said quietly, and Hawke was quick to obey, setting the girl on the ground and then pointing her in the direction of Merrill, who Musa immediately went in chase of.

The two men were alone, as alone as was possible in the caravan, and the quiet of that intimate moment was deafening. But it was only a moment that Hawke had to suffer through, and then Anders was pulling him into his arms and kissing him with a hard heat that made Hawke groan in anticipation.

When Anders finally pulled away, Hawke said with a grin, “So that’s a yes?”

“Even though you didn’t go down on one knee,” Anders laughed. His mouth softened as he smiled, “I can’t tell you how much I love you. There aren’t enough words, there isn’t enough time. That you’re still with me now, after everything I’ve done-”

“Your wedding gift to me is you being happy.”

Anders chuckled again, his dark eyes soft. He cupped Hawke’s face and drew him in for another kiss, slow and deliberate. A delectable shiver of magic spread across Hawke’s chest and prickled at his spine, and he clung tighter to Anders’ waist to keep himself upright.

A sound behind them disturbed the moment. Hildegard popped into view. "Oh! Sorry to interrupt! I was just going to ask how it went, but it looks like… Well, should we start making plans? Actually, I’ll just assume that we can. Sorry!” She disappeared back around the caravan as Hawke and Anders moved apart.

They caught up to her once Anders put Hawke’s robe in better order. Merrill pranced in front of Hildegard and when she jumped into Hawke’s arms he spun her around.

“Isabela said her tits would sag to her knees - Well, you know, she said it’d be a very long time before you’d get married. She and Varric had a bet. He even had this speech wrote up for your wedding that he read to me once. And now I’m making myself sad. When we should be happy! Lethallin, I’m happy for you.”

When he let her go she moved tentatively to Anders. Before she could speak he took her hands in his larger ones. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I tormented you for years but you never condemned me for my choices. I’m was wrong and I was cruel. I’m sorry.”

“Well, I’m his friend so that makes us friends-in-law. That what you humans call your married kin, isn’t it?” Merrill’s green eyes sparkled playfully. “Also I’ve seen you naked so we already are pretty close.”

“When have you seen me naked?” Anders asked in surprise but Merrill just laughed.

*

They made camp much earlier than usual, unhitching the oxen after only a few hours of travel. Merrill, Aimery, and Damase came for Hawke and Tyana and Rais claimed Anders. “You can't see each other before the ceremony,” Tyana explained. “It's bad luck. Come on, Frederick.”

“You better not leave me standing at the altar,” Hawke called after him and Anders blew him a kiss before he was dragged past the cart.

Merrill clapped her hands happily. “Oh weddings are so fun. We would have days of dancing, you know. All the through the night, too. And the stories! At a wedding, all of the elders would tell about their marriages, or the marriages of their parents.”

“Well I prefer Chantry weddings myself,” said Aimery. “Proper ceremonies, those. But if the sister is willing to put propriety aside... I suppose the least we can do is get you clean, serah.”

Mages or dwarves had channeled and dammed the thin stream so it pooled near the road. Stairs lead down from the highway to the banks, and the acolytes and initiates squealed and ran down the steps to dive into the water. They splashed and cursed each other while Hildegard and Ser Roncelin watched from the shore and sternly forbid anyone from going too deep. The riverbed was sandy enough that it wasn't a bad bath, despite the cold. As an early present, Ser Damase lent Hawke his whetstone for Hawke to sharpen his knife, and after a bit of digging through the remains of supplies, a sliver of soap was unearthed. Hawke sat on a rock by the river with a basin balanced on his lap as he shaved for the first time in weeks.

His fingers followed the line of his jaw, searching for stray hairs. Slower and with more care than he'd ever put into a simple shave Hawke scraped his face and throat clean, and then inspected his reflection in the water. Clean shaven he looked less like Malcolm, but he was still his father’s son: dark skin, thick eyebrows, black hair. Which was getting to be more gray than he’d like to admit; it was irritatingly impossible to check the top of his head for any signs of balding but he felt around for signs of that, too.

“Are you nervous?” Merrill climbed up beside him. She draped her wet clothes over a low hanging branch of a nearby tree and then sat where she could watch over the people still playing in the water. Satisfied that they were safe, she turned to Hawke and smiled. With her face scrubbed clean, the lines of her tattoos stood out dark and bold, and maybe it was the wildness of her wet hair, but he was struck at how very Dalish she looked, how very much like a Keeper.

“Me?” he asked incredulously. “What makes you say that?”

“Well you were staring into that bowl for ages. Unless there's something interesting in there? No, just looks like little hairs and bubbles. Oh, and Ser Damase wants his whetstone back. I think some of the other men want to shave. Which is too bad; I liked the way you all looked like bears.”

“I never thought I'd get married,” he admitted. It was fortune that he'd never imagined for himself. There was no point to working toward a married life in Lothering, not when the Hawke family's survival depended on hiding their magic, and once they'd made it to Kirkwall, more pressing issues had demanded Hawke's attention. He’d been willing to play the role of scion while Leandra was alive, but after her death Hawke’s patience for games was exhausted. By then he had Anders, and if the Chantry refused to marry them, it was a moot deprivation.

“I'm happy for you. For both of you.”

“I'm glad you're here. Varric would never believe it without a witness.”

She laughed for a moment and then her expression grew thoughtful. “I wonder if Flemeth knew what would happen. If we asked her, she'd probably claim that she did. Remember what she told you?”

Dealing with the Witch of Wilds felt more like something he'd read in Varric's stories than something that had actually happened to him. “That was a long time ago. You know, you were one of my first friends in Kirkwall, Merrill. Back when I had to beg from Varric if I wanted two coins to rub together.”

“Well, I didn't even know what coins were back then.” She reached over and slid her hand into his and they sat comfortably, watching the novices sputter in the water for a little while longer before Tyana and Rais called him back to the camp. Mild fire spells had dried everyone’s laundry and Hawke slipped into a cleaner shirt and pants, then strolled around, accepting toasts of watered-down wine. He wagered that it was more of the change from travel drudgery that people were celebrating, but he couldn’t pretend that he wasn’t pleased with the attention.

“Not many Templars get married,” Ser Laclan said after leading a toast to the Chantry, weddings, and clean socks. “Knew a few in Ansburg that had children, but they didn’t raise them.”

“Did they get taken away?” Tyana asked. She’d been sitting on the ground but she stood up, brushing away the yellowing olive leaves that carpeted the camp. The eyebrow that had been seared off during one of Hawke’s less successful lessons had nearly healed, but the hair was coming in crooked, giving the woman mistrustful expression.

Laclan stroked his neatly trimmed beard. “They weren’t exactly taken away. Not claimed is a better way to put it, I think.”

Anders would have used the moment to remind them that that was why the Circle was a failure, that it took more than it gave. A wind stirred the leaves and sent them rustling around Hawke’s ankles, and he recalled the noise that Ser Thrask’s daughter Olivia had made as she died. “Frederick and I don’t need to worry about that,” he said with a grin at Ser Aimery who made a noise into his mug.

The lack of flowers was made up with an abundance of wilting leaves, draped fetchingly over the oxen. The younger apprentices and initiates were sitting on the ground while the adults milled in approximations of two lines. Anders was standing with Hildegard in front of the wagon, which had been covered in one of the cleaner blankets. He’d shaved too, and pulled his hair into a ponytail and with it out of his face, Hawke could see the the line of his jaw, the delicate curve of his ear, each movement of his expressive mouth.

“Oi, you aren’t supposed to be here yet!” someone yelled at him and Anders turned with a smile that was too inviting for Hawke to ignore. But then Merrill and Rais pulled him back. “Here, Garrett,” Rais said and blushed up to the roots of his blond hair. “We made this for you.”

Hawke bent down and Rais solemnly put a flower crown on on his head. The daisies in it drooped down Hawke’s brow and he thought he saw a poison ivy leaf weaved in. “It’s perfect,” he said. “Thank you.”

“I didn’t know boys could get married to other boys,” Rais said to his boots.

“This is the Dragon Age,” Hawke told him. “We can if we want to.”

“Now stay here,” Merrill commanded. “I need to talk to Hildegard.”

By unanimous vote Musa was dubbed the flower girl and it didn’t take much coaxing to convince the child to walk down the aisle. Roncelin had shortened a shirt into a new dress for her and Hildegard had somehow managed to find a ribbon to tie around her waist. Musa hadn’t acquiesced to having her hair combed, however, and had threatened to burn her flowers if they didn’t let her go. When the ceremony finally started, Musa was steered down the aisle, but apparently stage-fright got the better of her because she only made it halfway to down before she scrunched up her round face started to cry.

“I don’t want to!” she howled and dropped her bouquet.

Anders and Hawke rushed out to her and Anders picked her up to comfort her.

“Fancy meeting you here,” Hawke said over her wails and Anders grinned.

“We might as well do this together,” he said and carried Musa as they walked to Hildegard and Merrill.

Musa sniffled through Hildegard’s sermon but Hawke barely heard her over the pounding of his heart. The sky was blue and unblemished above them and Hawke’s heart soared along with Hildegard’s voice as she spoke of Andraste and the Maker, and their divine and holy marriage that His children aspired to on earth. Hawke barely heard her - In the sunlight Anders was luminous. When the sister lowered her arms, Merrill stepped up and offered her hands to Hawke and Anders, who had to juggle Musa to his other arm. Her eyes were like circles of jade that shimmered as she told about Elgar'nan and Mythral, and then how her own parents had courted each other.

“Be stronger together than you are apart. And be happy.” When Merrill released their hands, Anders reached for him and they kissed over Musa’s squeals.

The feast and campfire after the ceremony provided a good cover for them to sneak away. A collapsed statue gave them even more privacy and Hawke cast a quick force spell to move it a little more toward the camp to ensure that they were unseen. Anders pulled open Hawke’s shirt and ran his hand over his stomach, scraping gently through his chest hair, before laying his hand over the long scar that covered nearly all of Hawke’s sternum. Anders had been a good teacher; without his lessons on healing, Hawke would have drowned in his own blood on the floor of the Keep, if the Arishok had allowed him to live that long. Hawke’s magic was hotly powerful but rough, and the desperate, scrabbling spells Hawke had called as the Arishok’s shadow fell on him had sufficed without Anders’ precision.

Hawke captured Anders’ hand and brought it to his lips.

“Husband,” Anders whispered, and it sounded like a benediction.

*

Of course the peace and happiness didn’t last, because that would make life too easy. As the miles to Marothius dwindled, they began to get their first real taste of Tevinter. Merrill spotted the thorns of felandaris twisting in the brush and they all perceived the Veil and how thin it was. Kirkwall had been dank with the miasma of the Fade; in the countryside it felt more tendrils of wind. It crept through the camp, disturbing sleepers at night and spooking the ox. Then as the sun set one night, another attack besieged the group.

The shades were like moving bits of night and spread the the twilit darkness toward the caravan. Hawke slid down from his seat on the cart and Merrill jumped down beside him. “I almost missed these guys,” he said as he pulled out his staff. “Nothing like a little mayhem in the evening to help me get to sleep.”

“I prefer a mug of tea myself,” Merrill answered.

With a maelstrom of energy Hawke slowed the shades and pulled them away. “Aim for the center,” he commanded the other mages. “Templars, stay back if you can! They’ll drain you dry.”

Fire spells and Hawke’s lightning lit up the falling night. The columns of the highway shook when Merrill cracked the ground and when Anders’ blasts of ice shattered the trees. Tyana moved with surprising speed, darting out to draw a shade into the open for Damase to bash with his shield, and on the top of the cart Ser Roncelin shot arrow after arrow at every moving shadow.

They were improving, and more importantly, they were working as a team.

“You killed all of them?” Hildegard exclaimed when the last bit of cinder cooled. “I can't believe it. What were those nightmares? You've seen them before?”

“Shades,” Merrill told her and was about to explain when Hawke held out his hand.

“Not all of them,” he said, pointing to figures moving closer to them. “Here comes something.”

There were two riders bent low over their horses’ necks, leading a third horse behind them. Both riders had staves attached to the side of their saddles and one had attached a banner to the top of the staff, and the trailing crimson flag it trailed almost looked like a gash in the sky.

“Feynriel!” Anders said in surprise and looked sideways at Hawke. Their eyes met as they both realized the implication of the other mage's arrival.

Once Feynriel had dismounted, Hawke held out his hand. “Good to see you again, Feynriel.”

Tevinter and time had been kind to Feynriel. His robe was cut low across his chest and Hawke could see the glint of jewels and precious metals roped around his neck. He’d managed to maintain his air of dignity despite the road dust that clung to his robes and the sunburn that was threatening his nose. His light hair was pulled back in a tight braid, which made the angular bones of his face seemed even more delicate and his whole expression refined. He looked elven.

Before Feynriel could respond, his companion, still sitting tall on her horse, said in a booming voice, “We seek Tristan Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall and Savior of Mages!”

“Hawke!” echoed Hildegard and the name passed through the rest of the caravan. It felt almost like a spell, one that caused everyone to take a step back and away so that Hawke, Merrill, Anders, and Feynriel were isolated in the center of the group.

The setting sun turned the sky red behind her and in her armor she was almost illuminated by the fading light. The mounted woman didn’t seem to notice the way everyone stared and shouted again, “I am Cei and bring word from my master, the great Melusina, Magister of the Tevinter Imperium. She has heard of your approach and is eager to show you the respect that you deserve. She awaits your arrival - Come with my now to her estate.”

Feynriel frowned and made a low noise of disgust. He passed Merrill the reins as he untied a long parcel attached to his saddle, then unrolled the bright silk to reveal three staves. Theirs, Hawke recognized and he reached out and grabbed his staff without a moment of thought or hesitation. Anders passed Merrill’s staff to her and twirled it before she tossed her old, wooden staff onto the cart.

“Champion Hawke?” Cei prompted.

“I accept the invitation,” Hawke replied. “But I refuse the summons. Magister Melusina will have to wait.”

She gawked for a moment but recovered her aplomb when someone snickered. In a voice so frosty that it was practically a Cone of Cold, she said, “Champion Hawke, Magister Melusina is not one to be disobeyed.”

“She'll get used to it. We'll stay with everyone.”

Cei’s dark eyes glittered in the fading light and Hawke stared back at her. Perhaps she thought that as mage, he outranked her, or maybe it was his stance with his hand on his staff that indicated that he would brook no argument. She nodded curtly and loosened the reins in her hands.

“You lied to us every day.” Hildegard's mouth was set flat and hard. And despite the state of her robes, she looked like she still had all the majesty of her position.

Anders sighed and leaned heavily on his staff. “Destroying the Chantry was necessary, but it was still a polarizing act of violence. And it wasn't intended to free the sisters from the Circle. We didn’t know how you’d react.”

Merrill met the sister's stare with a mild smile. “Even I know the Chant isn't about understanding and it's certainly not about mage rights.”

Feynriel turned his head toward Hawke and said in a low tone, “I didn't intend to cause so much trouble. We can ride double if you want to get out of here.”

Either Varric's publications made it too far out of Kirkwall, or they hadn't been spread far enough. Hawke watched Anders, trying to glean what was passing through his – or Justice's – mind. “No, I'm staying. I don't get kicked out that easily. So Sister, are you angry on behalf of the Chantry in Kirkwall? Or just indignant that you didn't recognize us?”

“You blew up the Chantry, serah! All those people, and the Grand Cleric! How dare you say that so glibly!”

Aveline would have called him an ass and Isabela would have laughed while Varric smoothed it over. Without them it was up to Feynriel's awkward cough to break the tension. “Anders,” Hawke said, ignoring Sister Hildegard's grimace, “what do you want to do?”

“Please, Sister, let us help you. You can think of it as my attempt to make amends, if that helps.”

“Merrill?”

“I don't know, Hawke. Remember how my clan reacted when they learned about Marethari?”

“Would autographs sweeten the deal?” Hawke asked with a smile that no one returned. “Any wanted posters we could sign?”

“What do you want, serah?” Hildegard asked in exasperation. “Are you running from the Templars? Are you going to be a magister in Tevinter?”

He didn't have a answer for that question. What Hawke wanted and what needed to be done didn't often intersect. “We're traveling in the same direction,” he replied. “It makes sense to go together.”

“You’re not going anywhere now,” Ser Aimery pointed out. “It’s getting dark. Help us find a place to camp and then you can argue about what you’re doing in the morning.”

It was hard to argue with practicality. Not that it couldn't be done and not that Hawke hadn't tried it before, but it was an easy enough reason to end that argument that nobody, not even the Templars, wanted to have.

“If you can't dazzle them with wit, pummel them with fatuity,” Hawke said with a shrug and Anders sent him a look that summarized just how little the group was impressed by him. It was hard to be profound without Varric feeding him lines. Varric might have found a moral for them, too. Something about how the harder Hawke tried to normalize his life, the faster it spun out of control. Which could probably be extrapolated to include the general outlook of Thedas.

The atmosphere had shifted, but the weariness of travel prevented any more arguments from developing. Feynriel lead his horse, but Cei stayed mounted and moved to the front of the procession to lead. The sister and knight-captain saw the maneuver as an unsubtle affront to their authority, and although it didn’t last long, it was a nice respite for Hawke to have their ire directed at someone else.

He had told Anders, as they stood in Hightown with the falling embers of the Chantry burning their robes, that he might have understood, if Anders had only told him. Hawke had meant it: He might have understood. Might. Grand Cleric Elthina’s neutrality wasn’t truly neutral; her complacency may not have been a resounding approval of the Circle and Knight-Commander Meredith’s tyranny, but it benefited them both all the same. And in cynical moments, Hawke wondered if the reaction of the Templars at the murder of Elthina and her clerics had been because Anders had used their methods of violence against them.

Ashes had fallen with the thickness and fury of Ferelden snow and when they started fighting the Templars, it mixed with the blood to make black smears in a trail down to the water. Anders had wanted to die afterwards. He had wanted Hawke to kill him, or at least expected it. It would have been more blood added to the waves of it that were already flooding Kirkwall and Hawke, who had already lost the rest of his family, refused to relinquish anyone else in the name of justice. He loved Anders with more ferocity than any of the forces that would try to tear them apart.

“Why did you get rid of your staves?” asked Tamar as she examined the staff that rested against the tree beside Anders. A few other of the novices drifted over, giving Feynriel and Cei a wide berth as they settled near Hawke, Merrill, and Anders.

“We thought they'd be too conspicuous.” Anders pulled the staff into his lap. “It was hard to let it go; I'm glad to have it back.”

“It's supposed to look like wood, but it’s aurum, isn't it? We only have iron staves, but I know the higher tier ones are different metals.” Tamar gingerly touched one of the wolves.

“You have a good eye. Yes, it's aurum. Hawke gave it to me years ago. He thought I'd appreciate the story behind it.”

“The story that the merchant gave me, anyway,” Hawke interjected cheerfully. “She said it was called Freedom's Promise.”

“And belonged to Aldenon himself,” Anders finished. He caught Hawke's hand and rubbed his knuckles. “You knew me well, even then.”

“Stop flirting. Who's Aldenon?” Tamar nudged Rais and added with a sneer, “Merrill's much better at telling stories.”

“Aldenon,” Anders repeated. “The companion of Calenhad Theirin. You must at least recognize that name.”

“He was the first king of Ferelden!” supplied Rais quickly and was rewarded with a smile from Anders.

“You’re right. Calenhad united the tribes of Ferelden and ruled over them. Aldenon was his advisor, a mage who urged him to build his nation on freedom and equality for everyone, even mages. But Calenhad deceived Aldenon and allied with the Chantry in his battle. When Aldenon discovered this betrayal, he withdrew his support: he refused to serve a man who had betrayed him and the mages of Ferelden. He warned Calenhad that freedom always escaped from tyranny.”

After the lesson with the crackling of the fire and the low murmur of other conversations filled in the silence. Hawke watched the fire throw its golden light and black shadows over the angles of Anders' long face.

“What about you staff, Merrill?” someone else prompted.

“We call this one Voracity because a strange spirit dropped it.” She ran a finger over bone at the tip of the staff. “Xebenkeck the forbidden was its name.”

“A demon?” Ser Damase asked and his hand went to the sword on his lap.

“Or worse,” Hawke answered.

Rais pulled on Hawke’s sleeve. “What about your staff, serah?”

Hawke held up Malcolm's staff as he contemplated it. “It was my father's. Wielding naked figures in battle is a Hawke family tradition.”

“Is that Andraste?” asked Tyana with a scandalized gasp.

When Hawke nodded Anders said with a chuckled, “What did you say, Hawke? Pummel them with absurdity?”

“And that's the family motto.”

Feynriel laughed. “You had that staff when we met. When I woke up, I thought maybe I’d dreamt that part. Who would make such a thing?”

“I find nudity in the face of adversity to be inspiring, actually,” Hawke said.

It was easy to be lulled by the sound of the crackling fire and lolling of the cattle, even after the day’s excitement. People slid away to make their beds, though Ser Roncelin and Ser Aimery stayed doggedly awake, remaining across from where Hawke, Feynriel, Anders, and Merrill still sat. Hawke didn’t see Sister Hildegard and he considered searching for her to try to make her understand what he himself was still trying to decipher. Thedas was a land of stark contrasts and it bore children with the same divergence in character, in beliefs, and in action. Anders who healed the untouchables of the Darktown was the same man who destroyed the grandest monument in High Town. Merrill had tried to save her clan and had ended up dooming them. They were heroes and pariahs.

He’d have to write to Varric and suggest “Heroes and Pariahs” as the title for his next book.

But instead of seeking her out, Hawke stayed with Anders and watched the Templars watch them.

In the morning Feynriel asked to speak to Hawke privately, so the two mages fell behind the rest of the group. Merrill and Anders stayed close, and over the heads of the rest of the group Hawke could see the proud figure of Cei as she moved to once again lead. The early light glimmered off the warrior’s armor and the horses that she lead pranced impressively around her.

“Magister Melusina is not my master,” Feynriel began. He tossed his staff from hand to hand, making his bracelets and rings shimmer. “But she’s my master’s sister. Being a somniari impressed her only when she learned that I could, in theory, kill rivals in their sleep. But beyond that, she prefered her own apprentices and her own machinations. Typical of most of magisters, I suppose.” He looked quickly at Hawke with a shrewd expression, “Tevinter will honor you, Hawke, but the Templars and this Sister… Well, they won’t get exactly the same laurels as you.”

“We aren’t expecting to conquer Minrathous, Feynriel.”

“Just be prepared.” Feynriel urged. He pulled his hair out of its braid and shook it loose. “See, this is something I couldn’t do in Minrathous. Senescal Cei will be appalled. It’s a lot like Orlais in that respect, I think. Sometimes I miss the freedom of Kirkwall.”

“Where you weren’t free.”

“Well, with the Dalish I was. For a time, anyway.”

Hawke glanced at Merrill and Anders, lingering on his husband’s back. The fear that had made him flee Kirkwall was returning, and Hawke sighed and made a list of other countries they could run to. Maybe Isabela would take them to Rivaini. “So why are you here, Feynriel? Does you master want to enlist us, too?”

“No, just Melusina. All of Minrathous has been talking about you since the news of Kirkwall reached us. Some hope this will be a turning point against the ongoing hostilities with Orlais, others hope you’ll defeat the Qunari. I don’t know exactly what she wants from you. Maybe she wants to marry you. Maybe it’s purely status. But she wanted to get to you before anyone else, and so she asked me to find you in the Fade.”

Hawke frowned. “I never saw you.”

“That’s because I could never get close. Justice is always guarding you; it was impossible to get near. Though it did make it easy to locate you.”

Again Hawke looked to Anders. He’d worked with Justice in the Fade, but he’d never been aware that the spirit had been shielding him so faithfully. It surprised him, and made affection rise in his chest like the sun. “You missed the wedding - Sister Hildegard and Merrill married us.”

“Congratulations, Hawke.”

“So these staves are belated wedding presents. How did you get them, by the way?”

Feynriel laughed. “About a week ago, some poor courier came to the gates of the city and just about died there. She was holding onto these and babbling something about a dwarf and how he was going to barbeque her if she didn’t deliver them before the half moon. Finally someone got the name ‘Varric’ out of her. I heard through the grapevine and collected them.”

Hawke spun his father’s staff again. The aurum was warm under his palm and in the mid-morning light, golden Andraste had never looked more glorious. “Good old Varric.”

“I’m surprised you’re not traveling with him.” He lowered his voice and added, “When you razed the Chantry, did your companions turn on you? Is that why you’re coming to Tevinter?”

“It wasn’t safe to stay there any longer,” Hawke deflected. He wasn’t particularly surprised that Feynriel seemed to think he was responsible for the Chantry’s destruction. He debated correcting him and decided against it; his reputation was full of half-truths anyway, and if it protected Anders, Hawke would take down the whole Templar Order. “Besides the food’s supposed to be better.”

Hildegard didn’t try again to expel them from the caravan, so they stayed with the group. Feynriel and Cei had made the trip from Marothius in a day of hard riding. It would take the caravan longer, but the city was so close that the younger members of the group pretended they could see it when they stood on the top of the wagon. They saw more and more farms, and perversely more and more shades.

“In peace, vigilance,” Anders said grimly. The three of them were perched on the top of the wagon, watching the countryside as it slowly passed. “That's what the Wardens would say.”

“About darkspawn, not demons,” pointed out Merrill.

“It's still a valuable philosophy. Out here, anyway.”

“Sister Hildegard,” Hawke called, noticing the woman catching up with them. “Want to come up here? Not a bad look-out post.”

An expression of indecision flittered across her face but then she wiped her sweating brow with her sleeve. “All right. Give me a boost. I wanted to talk to you anyway.”

Merrill and Hawke offered their hands and pulled Hildegard up. She brushed off some of the dirt from her robes, which did little to clean it, and then folded her hands. “Should I call you Tristan?” she asked and he shrugged.

“A friend of ours started calling me Hawke, for some reason that I’m sure he thought was important. Of course you can call me Tristan. I'll even answer to Garrett.”

“And Anders? That sounds like a pseudonym.”

“A nom de guerre.” He replied caustically but then softened his tone, “It’s as good as a real name at this point. I’ve used it long enough.”

“Merrill?”

Merrill tapped her staff on her toes. “Yes, please call me Merrill. Though it was sort of nice to hear people saying Alerion again. Alerion was my clan. My first clan,” she added quickly, seeing Hawke raise an eyebrow, and explained, “I left them at the Arlathvhen and joined Marethari in the Sabrae clan.”

“And you’re all from Ferelden. Strange how we all ended up here.” Hildegard said and then scoffed at their surprised expressions. “I should hope I can still recognize my fellow countrymen, even after all these years. Free Marchers speak differently; I’ve always thought so. Besides, we all read the stories of the Champion. The only thing I didn’t know about you was your face, apparently.”

“How did you get from Ferelden to Ansburg?” Anders asked.

“It’s a long story. There was something I had to do…” She stopped and looked down the highway. Hawke followed her gaze: there wasn’t much to see other than tiny farms in the distance, the dark specks of some animals in the field, then a flock of birds that rose out of the trees, flying together in a shadow over the sun like an omen. Not that Hawke had ever believed in the fortune-telling tricks practiced by hedge mages or bored nobility at Kirkwall parties. Then without any more preamble the words burst out, “I thought I was doing the Maker’s will! It’s always been so hard for me to understand His ways. Why can’t I trust in Him?”

“Sister Hildegard, you do realize you’re saying this all aloud?” Merrill asked and patted the woman’s hand before she snapped it away.

“Yes, I’m sorry. There’s just so… In the Circle, I saw what some of the Templars did to their wards. Not all Templars are evil, but this system makes them oppressive, sometimes even cruel. The Chantry was wrong to permit it for so long. I thought I was doing the right thing - the Maker’s will - by saving my friends. But you, you killed the Grand Cleric.”

“And whoever else was in the Chantry with her,” Anders murmured.

Hildegard’s eyes filled with tears and she pressed her face into her palms. “You give me such doubts.”

“You probably won’t believe me,” Merrill said sadly, “but I know how you feel.”

“Maybe things will be better in Tevinter,” Hawke said and didn’t really believe it.


	3. Chapter 3

The highway became more crowded as they approached the city, and they began to share the roads with farmers and their carts and then splendid carriages with drivers who bugled for them to move aside. Hawke couldn’t see into through the curtained windows, but they had to be mages - Though Altus or Laetan he couldn’t say. The sudden shift in paradigm was a bizarre one, and like he always did when he felt unsettled, Hawke cracked increasingly unappreciated jokes. And night he was practically clinging to Anders to ensure he, or Justice, didn’t escape. “You married me,” he said into Anders’ chest. “You knew what you were getting into.”

There had been an uneasy truce between him, Anders, and Merrill, and Hildegard and her Templars, but as their position of authority weaned, so did the camaraderie. Seneschal Cei’s constant figure at the head of the procession didn’t help, and Hawke suspected that Hildegard felt more like she was following a jailer than leading a march.

He rattled the rocks in his pockets and they clinked against his rings. It wasn’t as satisfying as jingling coins, but it sufficed. He told Rais and Musa about Corin - his mabari and the hero he’d been named after. And then there were stories of Ferelden, then of Kirkwall, though he generally told tales of his earlier years, before Leandra had been killed. But what got requested most often was the story of the Arishok and driving the Qunari out of the city. That was easier to answer than how Hawke, Merrill, and Anders were driven out, so Hawke obliged, and did a damn good impression of lying flat on his back with the Arishok’s sword through his stomach.

Soon Marothius was merely miles away. Finally the city rose as bright and splendid as a the sun on the horizon. Someone pulled the oxen to a halt and Hawke turned around to see the caravan stop.

“I think we should part here,” Sister Hildegard said. She faced them as she spoke but her eyes were focused on something in the distance. The rest of the caravan said nothing loud enough to contradict her.

Anders and Merrill turned toward Hawke, who shrugged with a smile. “It was fun while it lasted. Good luck, Sister. I hope Tevinter’s everything we'd thought it be.”

“Remember your training,” Anders urged as he walked to Hawke's side and Merrill bent down to be at eye level with the children that were still clustered around her. “And remember the stories,” she said before she too left the caravan behind.

Feynriel turned toward Cei. “Go on ahead,” he ordered. “Take the horses and let Magister Melusina know that we've arrived.”

She looked dubiously at him before giving him a curt nod. “Messeres,” she said, dipping her head politely before kicking her horse into a run. Once she was out of earshot, Feynriel said to Sister Hildegard, “The farmers around here might not mind if you make camp, especially if you stay near the forests. You've seen the creatures around here, though. I'll petition for your entrance. Hawke, you'll put in your word, right? It won't take long in that case, I'm sure.”

“The mages can go in though,” Ser Laclan called out from his seat on the wagon. “Right?”

“Yes, of course.” Feynriel responded. “I thought you'd want to stay together...”

“We'll stay,” some voices responded instantly while Sister Hildegard shook her head.

“No, you must go in. We didn't come all this way to see the pilgrimage fail at the gates.”

Their voices raised as they argued. “All right!” Hawke said over the confusion. “We'll get you in, all of you. Feynriel, do you know anyone who'd be willing to stable the oxen? And hold these wagons?”

He exhaled a deep breath as he thought. “There’s a farmstead near here that I know of, and the farmers are elves, so they might be willing to do it as a subtle stab at the magisters. For a hefty price.”

Feynriel stayed close to Hawke's side as the caravan steered toward the farm. He pulled Hawke to the side and said, “Serah, I appreciate what you're trying to do for these people, but I don't know if the nobility of Marothius will suffer Templars, even well-meaning ones.”

“It's hardly an army of them,” Hawke replied. “Are they really that threatening?”

The other mage shook his head. “Maybe Melusina will do it to get into your good graces.”

“Let’s find out.”

By the time the oxen and wagons had been bargained away and the caravan – more of a parade - made it back to the city gates, the sun and the heat of the day had reached the apex. Sweat ringed their already dirty robes and dripped down under armor, and even with the snow that the mages made for everyone to wash their faces or cool their throats, everyone was drained. Finally they reached the golems protecting the gate to the city and with a few words from Feynriel, they were allowed to enter. The gates opened to a long bridge that extended into the city proper. The thick walls rose high above and Hawke could see patrols moving between the parapets and as the sun moved lower, the walls displayed shadows like canvases.

It wasn't as bad as Hawke's arrival in Kirkwall. There were no groups of refugees shambling aimlessly by the gates and though Hawke got glimpses of movement in the alleyways as they walked, there weren't as many beggars on the streets or rats in the shadows. And Feynriel assured them there was nothing called the Gallows or Darktown – little things like that mattered.

The city had been built into the hillside, carved out of the rock and then shaped in equal parts by magic and dwarven architects. The cream-colored stones that built everything from the great wall to the tiny storefronts turned a deep yellow and even the water fountains looked like they were pouring molten gold. Gardens spilled down from rooftops and ran lined the streets, growing more lush and colorful as they walked deeper into the city. Like Kirkwall, the upper class parts of the city were literally the upper parts; rising above the streets were towers and spires trailing colorful flags. The streets were wide and Feynriel lead them through a series of marketplace squares; it was afternoon already and many vendors and shoppers had already finished for the day, but there were still people bustling, and when they walked through, there were people staring.

“Where's the alienage, Feynriel?” Merrill asked as she scanned the roofs. “I don't see a vhenadahl.”

“There isn't a vhenadahl here. It was caught down years ago, in Blessed I think, and now there's a law preventing anyone from planting a new one. I don’t believe anyone’s actually attempted to plant one, though.”

Merrill flushed angrily under her tattoos. One of the elven acolytes caught up with her and tugged on her robe, and Hawke heard him ask, “What’s a vhen-whatever, Alerion? I mean, Merrill?”

“Vhenadahl,” she pronounced the word slowly. “It means ‘tree of the people.’ It is a tree in the alienage; a piece of the forest, of home. It is our link to the sky and the earth, and without it...”

Anders touched her shoulder and Merrill looked up in surprise. “When you’re severed from your past, your future is weakened,” he explained.

“And your present,” she added glumly.

More people were watching them, peering out of doors and yelling to each other from open windows. A pair of guards, in armor even more impressive than Aveline’s had been, were leaning against a wall, but they just waved the procession past. Seneschal Cei had apparently announced their arrival to someone, Hawke surmised.

“That building in the center, is that the Circle?” Anders asked, pointing to the structure that soared above the other roofs.

Feynriel nodded. “We can go see it later, if you want. The Chantry is beneath it. And where those banners are is the arena. But look, we’re almost there.”

The estate was ringed with a blooming garden and nestled between two weeping oaks were the gates to the house, tall and ornate with designs of dragons worked into the metal. They only had a moment to appreciate it before the doors opened and rows of slaves greeted them. The ones lining the pathway tossed flower petals into the air before bowing and from somewhere trumpets started to bugle.

“I can’t believe Varric’s not here to see this!” Merrill exclaimed before starting to giggle.

“Welcome to the Tevinter Imperium, Champion!” chorused the line of blank faces. “Conqueror of the Qunari, defender of mages!”

“So my reputation precedes me. I should write a thank-you note to Varric.”

They dropped to their knees in perfect harmony, eyes all diverted as Hawke strolled down the path. Amazing was an understatement. Almost unbelievable - Even an army couldn’t have been more precise. He couldn’t feel it, but he wondered if maybe blood magic was the cause of the exact union of all their movements. A jolt of fear made his smile waver, but with the slaves all staring at their bare feet there was no one to notice it.

The doors swung as they approached and as Hawke followed Feynriel through the doorway, he saw the the tips of pointed ears behind the massive wooden door. Merrill noticed them too and peered around at one of the elves. Footsteps caught their attention before she could say anything and they all looked up at the massive staircase that lead down to the foyer where they all stood. There were too many of them to all enter so they spilled out into the yard, the novices crowding in front while the Templars peered apprehensively over their shoulders.

The human woman descending the staircase had to be a magister. Her robes were grander than anything Hawke had seen in Kirkwall, ringed with white fur and stamped with gems. Her tan skin wasn't as dark as Hawke's; Antivan descendancy, he guessed, and wondered how good she was at assassination. The bracelets on her wrists spun finely over the back of her hands and tipped her fingers in gold claws, and necklaces spilled out from her robe in frothing waves of delicate chains and then weaved up into her red hair. Hawke almost felt like applauding. Behind her an elf carried her long, silver staff.

“Champion Hawke! You honor us with your arrival. If you’d only come when we expected you - the food and the guests, well, neither waited with the same devotion as I have. The Champion of Kirkwall, here at my estate.” The red smile that stretched across her face slackened as she watched the rest of the group straggle in behind Hawke, Feynriel, Merrill, and Anders. “Feynriel?” she called. “What is this?”

“I come bearing gifts, Magister. We’ve been traveling with them.” Hawke said quickly. “They’re refugees from Ansburg’s Circle.”

“Indeed?”

“It’s a novel present, you have to admit.”

“How charming,” she said with a tinny laugh. “My own legion of refugees. What were you intending to do with them, Champion?”

Sister Hildegard shouldered past him. “With your permission, we'd like to camp outside the city walls,” she said firmly. “And we'll need to be able to move freely through the gate.”

The magister stared, first at Hildegard and then at Hawke. “She is bold, isn’t she? If they’re under your protection, Champion, then of course I’ll do whatever I may with my small bit of influence. Lyde, have a contract written up. There, Sister, will that do? Or perhaps you’d like to make haste to our chantry?”

Sister Hildegard shook her head. “No, Magister. No, thank you. Our mages - we - we are all very grateful for your kindness.”

Magister Melusina had to take small steps in her heavy gown but she finally reached Hawke and dipped into a careful bow. When Hawke held out his hand, half out of politeness, half as preparation to catch her if one of her shoe’s heels snapped, she looked at it almost nervously. Finally she clasped it and seemed to steel herself. “The Champion, one hand raised to the sky, one hand on his staff, used the gifts from the Maker Himself to free Kirkwall from the hypocritical grasp of the corrupted Chantry!”

It had been part of a speech, surely, but the fervor in her voice was real. She smiled with an eager, almost hungry expression that displayed her wet, white teeth. Hawke stared at her in surprise and managed a quick glance at Feynriel before she launched back into her diatribe.

“Tevinter is proud to welcome her prodigal son home. With your strength, your knowledge, your power, the Imperium will rise again in Thedas, uniting the land for a new age. How did you do it? We’ve been arguing about it since it happened. Did you use the Qunari’s gaatlok? That’s what Magister Semiramis claims, but what does that old fool know? As if you’d sully yourself with Qunari trinkets! No, certainly you used magic. I can’t imagine how many slaves it must have taken. Did you use yours? Such a noble sacrifice!”

“Magister Melusina,” he said coldly, “I'll be happy to regale you with my exploits once we've settled a bit.”

“You’re tired from the journey,” she soothed. “And what sort of host am I making you stand here in the hallway? Lyde? Lyde! Now where did that elf go - Antiochus, please show our honored guests to their quarters. Feynriel, make yourself decent and then join me in my study. And… Your group of lovely friends behind you, Champion Hawke. Are they ready to go to the Circle?”

It took more time than the Magister clearly was patient for, but the mages, Sister Hildegard, and the Templars turned to leave. Hawke followed them back to the gate of the estate. “We’ll visit the Circle as soon as we’re able,” he told the mages as he shook their hands. “And Sister, we’ll come out to see you, too. I’ll try to get you some money. Until then, stay safe.”

Ser Damase bowed and behind him the other Templars nodded. “You too, serah.”

“I must trust in the Maker, Serah Tristan,” Sister Hildegard said in a shaky voice. “We all made it here and our mages are free. Those are victories.”

Hawke watched them leave and then followed Antiochus back inside.

The rooms were grander than those in the Amell estate, and while Kirkwall’s buildings had been thick and almost squat, the chambers of Magister Melusina had soaring ceilings held up by delicate columns and old magic. They were lead to three separate bathing rooms but Hawke stayed with Anders and followed him despite the startled looks of the slaves. Their clothes were whisked away, probably to be burned, and then two slaves picked up the staves that Hawke and Anders had left at the side of the pool and held them across their palms like offerings.

Anders dove in first then held out his hand to Hawke who walked slowly in. The mosaics on the walls had glyphs worked into their designs and many of them were repeated into the pool. He hoped all they did was keep the water warm. In despite of the beauty of the room and the bubbling, perfumed bath water, neither of them wanted to linger. The silent slaves who were posted by the door made for an unsettling audience. Still, Hawke’s gaze lingered on his husband as they dried themselves. They were both so skinny, but the way that Anders’ long muscles slid under his creamy skin, the flex of his back as he bent down, the way his long hair clung to his neck - He was as beautiful as the day they’d met. Hawke desperately wanted Tevinter to be the haven that Anders deserved but as he accepted a silken robe from a barefoot elf slave in a thick metal collar, the last bit of hope faded.

The door cracked open and another slave appeared. Lyde, the elf that Melusina had sent to get Hildegard’s permit, approached with a tray of dazzling pieces of jewelry. Rings, necklaces, bracelets, even belts of rainbows of gems glittered like a dragon’s hoard. Isabela would have been very impressed.

“Not quite our style,” Anders said lightly.

Lyde tilted her head slightly to the side. She had dark brown hair cut close to her skull and her long ears had been pierced, but there were only tiny circles of silver in her lobes. “My master bids you to sample fully Tevinter’s wealth.” She said in a flat but polite tone. “She would not want the Champion of mages to be disappointed with her offerings.”

He wondered if Lyde was part of Melusina’s offerings and exhaled a low sigh, feeling more weary than he had on the road. “The Magister doesn’t need to expend so many of her resources. What’s that saying, Anders?”

“‘When in Tevinter?’” Anders suggested with a shrug.

“I was thinking ‘you can take a man out of Ferelden, but you can’t take Ferelden out of a man.’”

“Or ‘you can lead a Fereldan to water, but you can’t make him drink.’”

“I understood that the Champion hailed from the City of Chains,” Lyde said in same voice.

Hawke looked up sharply. The elf’s expression hadn’t changed, but her words prickled. It was an odd epithet to choose over simply referring to the city as Kirkwall. “Not originally, but it was our home for the past seven years or so. We had to struggle, but we made a place for ourselves.”

She said nothing to that, but the gems flickered in the light when she moved a step forward. Hawke and Anders shared a look before Hawke grabbed a necklace at random. Anders selected a pair of earrings and held them up to his face.

“I pierced my ears in the Circle,” he said, turning his head for Hawke to admire him. “The Templars accused me of blood magic.”

“Thanks,” Hawke said to Lyde, and the elf bowed and backed through the door.

The bedroom that Melusina had been willing to sacrifice for their use was probably not the most ornate room in the house, but it surpassed Hawke’s room in the Amell estate in size, decoration, and certainly perfume. A good mabari would’ve pulled down the the blue silk curtains that undulated in the night breeze, and the pillows stacked at the foot of the bed and spilling onto the carpeted floor were perfectly sized for mabaris’ jaws. Instead of a wooden bedframe, their bed was exquisitely carved stone, inlaid with crystals that caught the fading sunlight that managed to untangle the curtains enough to creep through the open windows. More slaves were waiting, some holding clothes and others with pitchers and trays of food. They dismissed all of them and dressed each other, which took much longer than it would have if the slaves had done it. Afterward Hawke poured Anders a glass of wine as Anders stood at the balcony. His knuckles were white from grasping the balustrade and he released his grip with difficulty to accept the drink.

“Maybe we should travel from country to country as wandering freedom fighters,” he said with a weak smile. “I should see if the Wardens have griffons somewhere so we don’t have to walk.”

“Or maybe Flemeth will give us a lift. I think we parted on fairly decent terms last time we talked.” He put the wine aside to enfold Anders in his arms. “Keep Justice as calm as you can,” he whispered urgently. “And try to avoid talking about the Chantry.”

“Yes, I know this magister is planning something.” Anders touched his temple with his long fingers. “Justice is troubled, but his thoughts aren’t as oppressive here. It feels different than Kirkwall, have you noticed that?”

Hawke nodded. “We’ll only stay as long as you can stand. Or as long as it takes for them to kick us out. Whichever happens first.”

They drifted over to the long mirror to admire their robes. “Handsome as always, husband,” Anders said as he rested his chin on Hawke’s shoulder. He slid his hand over the layers of red and black silk then fingered the high collar. “These fit you perfectly.”

“Magic,” Hawke said with a shrug. Anders’ robes were just as rich, though they lacked the embroidery that twined up around Hawke’s hems, and were black and dark blue, which Hawke thought complimented Anders’ coloring perfectly. They looked like magisters, he thought as he studied their reflection. “We can thank Melusina for her good taste in fashion, in any event.”

“I miss your flower crown, though.” His breath was warm on Hawke’s ear as he kissed there.

They finally ventured out into the hall where they found Merrill wandering with two nervous slaves who were attempting to direct her without expressly correcting her movements. Her green and black robes were as exquisite as Hawke’s and Anders’, but unlike them she wore no new jewelry. Feynriel collected them at the top of the staircase, also washed and dressed in finery.

“I suggested to Magister Melusina that a quiet, private meal would be to your preference,” he said as he led them through the house. There were more glyphs worked into the frescos that spanned the walls and ceilings, including some that Hawke didn’t recognize. The magic pressed on him as they walked by like touches of ghostly hands.

“As opposed to a party?” Anders asked and Feynriel’s mouth twisted into a smile.

“Magister Melusina is eager to introduce you to Tevinter. Marothius is hardly Minrathous, but there are still a number of powerful Laetans who live here.”

“Feynriel, these glyphs…” Merrill pointed to a circle of them with her staff and they glowed angrily in response. “I’ve never seen them before.”

Feynriel raised his hand and again they responded, though their glow was not as bright. “They’re elven, copied from the ruins.”

“Elven!” Merrill repeated. She craned her neck to stare up at them again. “But I don’t… What do they do?”

“There are some that we aren’t sure what they do. They’re lost to time.”

“Like so much else,” she said quietly.

Feynriel nodded but said no more. Slaves pushed open doors to the dining room and Melusina raised a glass of wine to them as they entered. The meal was brought out by more slaves, timed perfectly with their entrance.

“Champion! This is a humble meal - so hard to find proper ingredients so far from Minrathous - but please, have a seat. When we go to Minrathous, I’ll be able to show you true Tevinter hospitality.” Her dining robe was tempered slightly from the one she had greeted them in, but it was still a magnificent creation of feathers and pearls. She too was in black and when they were all seated, Hawke had to admire the dark harmony of their robes.

“We’re humbled by your generosity, Magister,” Hawke told her and she twittered in pleasure. He talked through the whole meal, filling the air with Varric’s stories so Melusina had no opportunity for questions. She leaned forward eagerly when he began to regale her with the Qunari attack (“The First Battle of Kirkwall!” she exclaimed) and when he reached the epic conclusion, leaving out all the blood he’d retched up and how he’d spent long enough on his back that Isabela suggested a change in career, she reached forward and grabbed his hand in hers. One of her rings pressed as cold as ice into his skin and another seemed to leach his energy away, and Hawke grimaced. She hadn’t been wearing those when they’d shaken hands at her door.

“Yes! Yes! Champion, you are… You were meant to be a Magister. I don’t know why the Maker saw fit to bear you in Ferelden, but He has brought you to your real home now. We are going to accomplish so much with your power.”

In Kirkwall, there had been enough Orlesians nobles that some attempted to pay the Grand Game during Hightown parties. Hawke had watched as a few of the families vied against each other with subtle barbs and suggestions, wielding gossip like a weapon. The native Kirkwallers found the Game less engaging and stuck to their drinks and dancing for entertainment, and as a Ferelden, Hawke wasn’t even considered worthy of attempting to play with. Which was fine with Hawke, who had watched the dramas with a drink in hand and mocked them afterwards with Varric. The Tevinter wine was good, but Hawke felt like he deserved at least a whiskey for putting up with the Magister’s machinations.

Hawke felt his own ring warm as its magic defended him. “Careful, Magister,” he said as he freed himself. “You don’t want to kill me before dessert.”

Her apology was accompanied by a flurry of more compliments, some of which she showered on Anders and Merrill. Taking advantage of her attempt to mollify them, Hawke claimed to be too tired for any more courses. Anders rose with him but Merrill surprised them all by staying in her seat.

“I’d like some more salad, please,” she said brightly. Melusina lowered herself back into her seat and smiled down the table as Merrill was served.

Anders and Hawke were led away by Lyde. Back in their room they again dismissed the slaved and undressed each other. The massive bed’s sheets were embroidered with dragons, which Hawke appreciated for a moment before he flopped face first onto them.

“Tristan,” Anders said, shaking his shoulder gently when Hawke groaned. “What did Melusina do? Was she casting a spell?”

“No, it was just her rings. Next time it might be a spell, though.”

“Are you all right?”

“I will be once you get into bed.”

They were almost too tired to do anything but sleep. Almost.

*

In the morning they met Feynriel and Merrill in the garden but they barely had time to greet each other before the doors open. Slaves had unobtrusively placed a throne under the terrace and Magister Melusina swept down the steps into the garden toward it. Her robes trailed majestically behind and Hawke noticed with amusement mixed with annoyance that the slaves had cleaned the stones of dirt and leaves so that nothing got on her robes. Today she was in a magnificent dress that mimicked the plumage of a peacock. Chains of pearls slithered down her arms and chest as she moved, glinting dully in the pale morning light. The grandeur of her outfit clashed with her garden and her guests. Intentional, Hawke thought; an elegant reminder of her relative station.

“Feynriel has a fascinating ability, but unfortunately it doesn't translate into any skill useful in battle. A pity! That’s why my brother allowed him to accompany me on this little vacation in the countryside.”

Feynriel frowned but his voice was mild when he spoke. “I don't want to be a magister, so it's a moot point.”

She ignored his comment and seemed to ignore him completely as she focused on Hawke, Anders, and Merrill. Hawke stood slowly so she could inspect him and put his hands in his pockets. Without even rocks to fiddle with, the most he could do was swivel his rings. It reminded him to try to arrange to have some of his money in Kirkwall funnelled to Tevinter and once he had it, buy Anders’ a belated wedding band. Cheered by the thought of a gift for his husband, he quipped, “I hope you find me more compelling.”

“Of course, Champion!”

“So what can we do for you, Magister?”

“Please, Champion!” she exclaimed and clapped her hands together. "What can I do for you? I’m afraid I haven’t been much of a host. Or is Marothius not to your liking? Too dull?”

“Well it is different than Kirkwall,” Merrill offered. “Cleaner. Which is nice, of course. But everything is so… bleak? Maybe? Just a little bit.”

“Oh? What would you like to change, Merrill?”

“Well, you do have an awful lot of slaves. I really don’t think you need so many. Or any at all, really.”

When Melusina moved, the strands of pearls pattered on her throne. “Kirkwall surely has servants. Even Ferelden.”

“Servants, not slaves.” Merrill stressed.

“Well that’s merely a difference in semantics, wouldn’t you say? We are mages, Merrill, and we have power that these… people don’t. Isn’t it our responsibility to take care of them?”

“By enslaving them?”

Melusina shrugged a shoulder and her gown rustled in response. “I provide food, shelter, clothes, and a purpose. Can the elves in Kirkwall’s alienage say that they have the same safety?”

“It’s not the same,” she insisted but the magister turned her attention once again to Hawke.

“Champion, may I be so bold as to ask you to accompany me? Perhaps to a more intimate setting. Oh, not to bed,” she said conspiratorially to Anders, whose lips twitched but was otherwise able to remain placid, “but I do want to spend some time with you.”

Hawke met Anders’ eyes before he turned obligingly toward Melusina. When he offered his arm she wrapped her hand around it, tightly, as if she thought he’d try to escape. They walked slowly through the labyrinth of her estate and the tour ended when she pointed to a door at the end of the hallway. “My study,” she declared.

Columns engraved with dragons and mages, sometimes battling one another, sometimes battling other forces, spiraled at least two stories up. Books and scrolls filled the shelves that lined the walls, and as they strolled down the library, Hawke read some of the covers. No Hard in Hightown, but there were dwarven volumes, texts with the delicate writing of the elves, even one book that looked amazingly like the Tome of Koslun. On pedestals were elegant vases or statues, and at the end of the room was a stained glass window more splendid than the Kirkwall’s Chantry. A woman wielding a golden staff towered over a crowd of tiny people who groveled at her feet. Andraste, Hawke recognized in amazement. It had to be.

Melusina released him and draped herself over a plush couch. One of her bejeweled hands waved and in an instant a slave was at her side to take her staff. Another appeared by Hawke and with a gruff thank-you, he begrudgingly handed his own over. They stood like pieces of furniture themselves, silent and blending in perfectly with the rest of the room.

It might have been the Fereldan in him, but Hawke refused to lounge like she was and instead sat uncomfortably across from her. She asked concernedly, “What does the Champion require? Lyde, get the Champion some wine. And where is our fruit?”

He hadn’t seen Lyde, but Hawke heard the whisper of a door closing. There was a pause as Melusina studied him and then she clapped her hands and said, “Now that we’re finally alone, perhaps we can talk, mage to mage.”

“What do you want to know?”

“You destroyed the Chantry and then annihilated the Templar order. How? I don’t expect you to tell me all your secrets,” she said, slowly forcing herself to relax and smile. “But the more you share with us, the more we can do for you.”

Her high expectations struck him as being almost preposterous. Clearly she didn’t think a bomb had done it, and Hawke wondered what rumors had reached Tevinter before they had. “It wasn’t gaatlok, so you win your bet against that other magister.”

She snorted and pulled on her hair, curling a strand of it around her finger. It almost looked like blood and Hawke wished he had his staff in hand. “You won’t answer that, fine. I wouldn’t dream of forcing you to speak, Champion. Another question, then: The viscount's seat was empty. Couldn’t you have claimed it for yourself?”

Hawke shook his head. “It’d bring an Exalted March on Kirkwall for sure.”  
“So you came here to hide?”

It wasn’t exactly scorn in her voice, but the Magister was displeased with the direction her line of questioning had taken. Again he felt like she was fishing for something specific, and again he thought of the Game and “I came to help mages,” he told her. “And surely that’s mutually beneficial.”

Her head lolled on the arm of her couch, and despite the languidness of the pose, the magister twitched and fidgeted, making her strands of pearls whip and slide. She could afford to be careless with them, he supposed, and could imagine one of her slaves dutifully collecting each pearl that was torn free.

“I can see how taking mages right out from under the Chantry’s nose may be satisfying,” she allowed. “Especially after they turned so ungraciously on you after you saved them all from the Qunari.”

“A good deed never goes unpunished.”

When she laughed her white teeth flashed. “Is that really all you have to say? The city should have been on its knees for you! This was how they repaid your heroics - With a knife in their hand! Your Chantry is perverse, but I expect nothing better, considering who leads it.”

“Is this pampering so I’ll help lead an Exalted March against Orlais?”

“Is that what you think I want?”

Hawke shifted on the couch and his robes hissed thickly as they slid over his legs. The light silk stayed cool in the late morning heat, though now in the verbal duel he’d had the mistake of entering, the shirt felt constricting over his chest. Tight bands clung like snakes, smooth and slippery, and with every inhale he itched to rip off the layers, the ribbons, the heavy silver plates sewn into the folds. He surrendered to one urge and tore the collar open, sensing the Magister’s eyes one every movement his fingers made. “That’s what I’m trying to figure out, Magister. The Orlesians or the Qunari?”

“And who does the Champion feel is our greater foe? Or should we attack both?”

“A war on two fronts? Tevinter doesn’t have those sort of resources anymore.”

“No,” she admitted thoughtfully. She stopped fiddling with her hair and as if summoned by magic a slave appeared next to her couch with a platter of fruit pastries. Delicately she selected one, the sugary, flaky bread clinging to her nails, and then ate it with relish. Lyde materialized with a small basin for the magister to dip her hand into and then with a flicker of a glance at Hawke, the slave bowed and slid away. Melusina studied the other desserts and motioned Hawke to pick one for himself. As he tried to wave the platter away, she said, “You’re correct that Tevinter is not the empire it once was. But we can rebuild it, can’t we?”

“No, thank you,” he stated firmly to the slave. The platter inched closer to him despite his refusal. “If you’re looking to rebuild, there are countless mages in Thedas who would help. If Tevinter offered sanctuary to Circle mages-”

“I’m not interested in illiterate novices, Champion. Can your Ansburg apprentices even cast a fireball? One real mage is worth a thousand of those amateurs!”

“For what?” he asked, exasperated. “You still haven’t said. Are you trying to take down the Archon? Am I leading your army? Whenever I led anyone anywhere, we always ended up lost in the same cave.”

“Magic has limitless possibilities, Champion!”

Hawke leaned back on his couch, disgusted at her mindless covetousness of power. An arrow being shot at random could still be dangerous. “But what would you do with it?”

She made a fist and pounded it against her thigh. “Don’t you see? I could do anything. Or everything! The rest of the magisters have petty aspirations; I am the only one who could do justice to the Imperium.

“You know what it’s like - our only curse as mages is how evanescent it is. Pro tempore. It slips through us and away; even the Archon with all of his lyrium doesn’t have an infinite amount of mana. If I could hold it…” She squeezed her fist even tighter and her rings shook at the tension and her light eyes bore into him. “If I had a way to breach the Fade or to possess it...”

Hawke’s stomach clenched just as taut and it was with difficulty that he forced out a laugh. “Are abominations allowed to be magisters? I thought even Tevinter had rules about that.”

Her hand unfurled but her fingers were still tense on her leg. She leaned forward and in a voice that was as quiet and as cold as an assassin’s blade, she said, “How does one solve this dilemma, Champion?”

“Drinking might help,” he grumbled and then had to wave away another slave with a pitcher of wine.

“Well, Champion, hasn’t this been enlightening? And it’s been a pleasure having you all to myself.”

“The pleasure is mine, Magister.”

“Is it? Good, then you won’t be angry that you have to wait until tonight for your party?”

“Again you honor us, Magister.” He stood and took back his staff from the slave, whose large blue eyes only focused on him for a moment before resuming their blank stare. She held out her hand and he bowed over it; this time her rings were only for decoration. He didn’t feel safer, and when he found Anders again he gripped him in a tight embrace and wished they’d stayed in Antiva.

*

The breeze that wafted in from the garden brought with it the delicate scent of lavender. Hawke leaned over the balcony as he watched slaves toil in the gardens below, pouring water on the flowers but never daring to drink themselves, despite the dry heat that made the skyline shimmer. Hawke missed the salty winds of Kirkwall, even the smoke that greyed the skies and clung stubbornly to skin and clothes miles from the city.

“Ah, Lyde. What can we do for you?”

Hawke hadn’t heard a knock but when he turned at the sound of Anders’ voice, he saw the elf standing by the door. She would have made an artful rogue; Hawke pondered what kept her with Melusina, why Lyde didn’t slink away in the shadows for some safer vocation. Maybe slavery had degraded her imagination along with everything else that it had stolen from her. At that moment Hawke felt the tendrils of the Fade slither wetly through him.

Again she had come bearing the magister’s gifts: a tray with gleaming instruments of torture. There were scissors and knives with thin, fine blades, and small vials filled with pale liquids, all artfully arranged. Lyde bowed deferential and said, “Magister Melusina apologizes for being so bold, but she wished to extend my services to prepare you for tonight’s event.”

“She means that’s she here to cut your hair,” Merrill explained. Her bare feet pattered lightly on the stone floor as she stepped into the room. “And dye it, if you like. I said no to both. Melusina will not be pleased.”

Lyde inclined her head but said nothing to that. Merrill slipped by her and climbed into a chair, then sat watching them expectantly.

“You could use a shave,” Anders said to Hawke, who scratched at the thick stubble on his chin.

“You didn’t complain about it last night,” he retorted and Anders snorted.

Lyde stepped to the side and more slaves marched into the room, some with plush towels, a couple with basins of steaming water, and more with goblets of wine.

“I can do it,” Hawke said and found a knife on Lyde’s tray. “You can leave this here and between the three of us, we’ll figure out what we need.”

“I assure Champion Hawke that the magister’s slaves are well-trained in the art of grooming,” Lyde said.

“It’s either respect or disdain,” Hawke mused quietly and Lyde’s risked a small frown of confusion. He motioned to her knives and added, “You’re talented, Lyde, in a number of ways, and Melusina should be afraid of you.”

“I’m only a slave, Champion.”

Merrill tapped her staff on the floor. “You aren’t ‘only’ anything. We are fire and water, leaves and stars, and we make up as much of the world as the world makes up of us.”

Some of the slaves shifted, but the susurration of their loose robes was the only sound they made. Lyde remained as unmoving as one of the columns, the tray steady in her outstretched arms.

“And I have bare feet, too,” Merrill added.

“A shave and a trim then, please,” he said, probably too loudly. The slaves jumped into movement, one man carrying a chair to where Hawke stood and two women moving to Hawke’s side with a towel to drape over his shoulders. Merrill sighed as Lyde meticulously began to lather Hawke’s face. The whole ordeal was over in a matter of minutes; cosmetics were brought out next in an array of colors. Lyde selected a brush and a small vial and then bent down to be at his eye-level. Her fingers were cool as she gently held his chin and the thin brush she used tickled as she painted kohl around his eyes. They were merely a breath apart and when he was allowed to open his eyes, Hawke studied her as she worked.

“Please hold still, Champion,” she murmured and he smiled sheepishly.

“Sorry. Never had this done before.”

“You did not permit your servants to be at such close proximity?” She lay dipped her brush in water and then lay it on the tray. A new brush was selected for painting his lips and Hawke resisted the urge to talk through that application.

When he had a chance, Hawke said, “I doubt my servants would have wanted to be this close. And they were more like housemates than servants.”

“Kirkwall has strange practices.”

“I’d apologize to them if I annoyed them. I’m not interested in learning the way Tevinter works.”

“I didn’t mean to offend, Champion. Please forgive me.”

“No offense taken. And you can call me Hawke. I don’t think Kirkwall would consider me her champion anymore.”

“Your hair, serah…”

“Trimmed.”

“Shall I dye the gray?”

Hawke’s face fell and he sulked through the rest of Lyde’s ministrations. As he relinquished his seat, Anders glanced at Merrill before sitting down to submit to it himself. Lyde worked swiftly and after Anders met her standard of decency, lay her brush back on its tray.

“I’d actually like some of that too.” Merrill piped from her chair. “The face painting. If you don’t mind, Lyde.”

“Of course, serah! I beg your pardon, I hadn’t realized you wished to be included.”  
“Well, I’d said that I didn’t want it before. So it’s my fault for being capricious. But you made them so pretty that I can’t resist.” She slid into the vacated seat and clasped her hands on her knees. When Lyde picked up her brush, Merrill said brightly, “And I know exactly what I want. Can you trace my vallaslin? My tattoos?”

Lyde’s brush hovered as the hesitated, but she recovered and gracefully dipped her brush into a pot of blue ink. “Whatever Serah Merrill wishes.”

“Have you seen vallaslin before? I could tell you - Oh, I’m not supposed to talk now, am I? I must be interfering with your work. I’ll be quiet. Maybe we can talk later?”

When Lyde was done, the fine lines of Merrill’s tattoos were bold and as bright as magic. She inspected herself in the mirror and gingerly touched one finger to the sweeping curves that extended from her mouth.

The slaves left quietly with Lyde at the rear, bowing again as she closed the door. Merrill dragged her eyes away from her reflection and smiled at Hawke and Anders. “I’m not very Dalish anymore, am I? I painted over my vallaslin. But people won’t be able to ignore it now, even if it is fake.”

“It’s real underneath, Merrill,” Anders consoled. “It’s still true, even if only you know it.”

She was distracted when she left, meandering out without any other comment. Anders closed the door behind her then sat on the edge of the bed next to Hawke, who’d opened his robe before stretching out lazily. Anders brushed his knuckles down Hawke’s stomach, stoking idly at the dark hair that spread down from his navel. Hawke pulled him down to kiss his smooth neck and Anders laughed as he pushed him back onto the bed.

“You’re getting red everywhere.”

“Mm.” Hawke said, smearing the dark scarlet paint over the lines of Anders’ throat until Feynriel knocked politely at the door and they had to scramble for towels to clean away all of Lyde’s hard work.

They descended the staircase together. Again Magister Melusina had seen that their robes coordinated; they were all in gray with varying colors in the layers of their robes. As they reached the first floor, a voice rang out, “Champion Tristan Hawke and his companions Serahs Merrill and Anders.”

The applause almost drowned out the excited voices. People rushed forward to the bottom steps of the grand staircase, making eager introductions. As Laetans, the mages weren’t the very top of the food chain, but they were still ornately dressed with high-tiered staves in harnesses dappled with gems. Most were humans but Hawke met a number of elves even some dwarves, and he tried to remember the name and face of everyone who clasped his hand.

It wasn’t so much that people wanted to see him as much as they wanted to be seen with him. Armed with glass after glass of dark wine and strengthened by the plates of imported cheese, Hawke told terrible joke after embarrassing story, laughing along with his audience. Slaves streamed through with a never-ending supply of drinks and food, dressed in thin, silky togas that undulated as they slid around the room.

Suddenly, the candles all dimmed at once and the group of mages who’d been animatedly giving Hawke advice on herb gardens turned away to again face the staircase. “Here she comes,” the woman at Hawke’s right breathed.

Another voice announced her entrance and Melusina glided down the staircase. His acquaintances murmured when Hawke moved away but like everyone else, they stared with rapt attention at the magister. Nervous fingers tucked back hair and smoothed skirts; one mage pulled her staff out of its harness, jiggled it, and then jammed it back, almost hitting the dwarf beside her. Hawke worked his way toward Anders and the two of them searched for Merrill. As Hawke passed a cluster of people, one of the men grabbed at a slave and laughed when she backed away into a fern.

“Everything about Magister Melusina is gorgeous,” he said to his laughing companion. “Even these rabbits.”

“Don’t touch her,” Hawke said in a low voice that made the group go silent.

“Champion!” he stammered. He fiddled with his long necklace, pulling the chain nervously over his fingers so tightly that his skin bulged. His pale blue eyes darted to his friends, but they all looked away, suddenly interested in someone else’s robe or the frescos that lined the walls. “I didn’t know she was - Of course. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to - Don’t tell - ”

“Don’t touch any of them,” he warned and once the slave had gotten away, turned back to Anders.

“That was good of you,” Anders murmured. “But it’s only a temporary fix.”

Hawke nodded and then again like his gaze roam over the party. “Do you get the sense that they’re as afraid of her as they are impressed?”

Anders tugged on one of his earrings. “She outranks them. But you think it’s more than that?”

“I don’t know,” he replied with a worried frown. “They aren’t her peers, that’s for certain.”

He searched for the words to explain further but Melusina’s voice carried over the noise of the party, summoning them to her side. Melusina didn’t let either of them get far and slid her arms around theirs to keep them as her permanent escorts. The rest of the party was a sea of more faces and more drinks, but Hawke’s attention kept being drawn to the slaves. He thought he saw Lyde and Feynriel share a word, but then the mage waved her away. He wanted to ask Feynriel about it but by the time the last guest left, it was dawn and when Hawke and Anders got to their room, they fell into bed to sleep.

*

Melusina plied Merrill and Anders with questions too; like she’d done with Hawke, she separated them for a time, making Merrill admire the elven glyphs in the halls or taking Anders to the top room of the house for a view of the Chantry.

Feynriel agreed to take them to the Circle and acting once again like she was leading them to jail, Cei accompanied them. Hawke had wanted to spend some time talking to the mages from the caravan but they were busy with intense lessons and the First Enchanter met them at the front hall, but a chilly reception lent the visit an air of intrusion so they retreated without even having a tour.

It made him feel like a petulant child, but Hawke insisted on taking the long way to the estate on the way back from the Circle. They strolled through the markets again, past stalls of grapes and apples, and plenty of olives. Hawke bent over a basket of them and searched his empty pockets for the money he’d spent weeks and miles earlier.

“Please, Champion, for you. A gift.” The merchant was a gray-haired woman with a yellow shawl wrapped tightly over her shoulders. She filled a small canvas pouch with olives and pushed them at Hawke, who accepted it even though Feynriel shook his head.

“Even better than an olive branch,” Hawke said and thanked the woman.

She nodded and returned his grin with a tight smile. He had turned away when she exclaimed, leaning forward over her stall, “Please, Champion, a moment of your time! My husband sold himself into slavery to pay off our debts -”

“The Champion does not have time for petty complaints!” Cei bellowed and with a few heavy strides moved between Hawke and the merchant. “Take it up with the court if you want to petition or go to the Chantry if you want to pray.”

“But if he could just speak for -”

“Come, Champion!” Cei interrupted again and the woman backed away, swiping miserably at her eyes with her shawl.

Isabela had once called him a sucker for it, but Hawke hadn’t forgotten how much of survival depended on the whim of strangers. Malcolm had done it for the family, gambling his freedom or even his life for his hungry, tired children. They’d slept in the haylofts of barns for a time, or chopped wood for a meal, or ran errands in the city to build their reputations into a shield against the interest of the Templars. Favors for gold, gold for favors, storing either away for the rainy day that, in Hawke’s case, was always a tempest.

“I’ll do what I can,” he said loudly over Cei’s grunt of displeasure. “Send a letter to Melusina’s estate. Give me his name, your name, how much you owe – Anything that’d be helpful.”

A crowd was gathering around them and Cei whipped her head back and forth as if she expected an attack. Vendors leaned out of their stalls and some people lowered their baskets, but as Cei’s gaze fell on them they retreated back to their business.

Anders touched his arm and a smile flickered on his lips, reward enough for Hawke, and then turned to Feynriel and said, “We’ve lost Merrill. The alienage, maybe?”

Cei’s dark face mottled with rage. Hawke nearly pitied her for the amount of failure she’d have to report to her master. Feynriel looked around the street as he oriented himself, then pointed.

Lowtown had been a mess of hexes. Built haphazardly either on purpose by the Tevinters or in desperation by the slaves and refugees, the streets looped in on each other, tapered off into the water, or ended abruptly at a collapsing wall. Trash and rubble piled until the mounds were almost as tall as the houses themselves and with about as many people living in them. Marothius’ straight avenues were clean and bright, neat and systematic. Merrill had described the city as bleak, and Hawke could understand why she saw it that way. Unlike the wild hills under Sundermount where her clan had camped, the city had been plotted and built with deliberate order. The trees at every intersection were trimmed and bushes grew in pots. And unlike Kirkwall’s chaotic marketplaces, Marothius’ channeled its traffic in orderly lines. Even the Qunari would have approved.

There was no indication that there had ever been a vhenadahl in the alienage. Wherever it had been planted, the plot had long since been paved over. Instead area was dominated by a fountain with a robed statue in the center, water pouring from its hands. Hawke scratched at his chin, the shadow of stubble rough on his palm as he contemplated it. He assumed it was a magister, a representation and reminder to the elves of who it was who controlled their resources and thus their survival.

Or maybe it was just a piece of civic architecture. Hawke had never been much of an art critic.

Merrill stood in the water, heedless of her robes, which floated around her knees as she splashed around the fountain. When she noticed them, she waved and bounded out. “I got hot!” she explained brightly.

Cei grunted. “Are we ready to go back now?”

Hawke smiled down at Merrill. “Are you ready to leave?”

“Yes,” she replied in the same blithe tone. “I did everything I wanted to do.”

When they finally returned to the magister’s estate, she excused her to change and Feynriel and Cei went to report to Melusina the day’s adventures. Hawke and Anders climbed wearily to their room, but Anders didn’t join him as Hawke dropped onto the bed. He folded his arms behind his head and stared up at the patterns of light on the ceiling. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Anders move restlessly through the room, touching the plants, shoving in a chair, picking up a goblet and then setting it down again without drinking from it.

Justice knew no peace.

“Come here, sweetheart,” Hawke coaxed but Anders turned away to the balcony. He sighed and rolled onto his side so he could watch his husband, the firm set of Anders’ shoulders and the angle of his hips as he leaned against a chair. The breeze from the garden brought a welcome respite from the heavy heat of the room and he allowed himself a moment to enjoy it before he sat back up. “Let’s go. Tonight.”

Anders spun. “You can’t mean that.”

Hawke rubbed at his knees, which were sore under his palms. “She knows about Justice, Anders. Or she thinks she knows - I don’t want to argue the fine points about him with her. I can get the Merchant’s Guild to send the money to another city. Some place with a beach. Wait - Anders, where are you -”

The door clicked shut behind him. Hawke collapsed back onto the bed and scrubbed his hands through his hair. “Or the mountains. Or a lake. I’m not picky,” he grumbled into the empty room. He pulled off his coat and rummaged through the wardrobe until he found a relatively plain shirt, then left the room to search for Anders. Cnadles and glyphs were beginning to glow in the dimming afternoon light, but the still hallway was still dark with shadows. He walked down to the gardens, then back inside to the kitchen, but the slaves that he met denied seeing Anders, or Feynriel or Merrill. Irritated at Anders’ need to put others before himself and abashed that his suggestion of a honeymoon had been so thorough rejected, Hawke seriously contemplated just spending the evening with a bottle of wine.

Again he felt the whisper of the Fade and Hawke backed against the wall, hiding himself from whatever it was he sensed. After a few heartbeats he risked leaning around a corner - Anders’ robe disappeared into a room and the door closed silently behind him. The years of traveling, living, dealing with two of Thedas’ most proficient rogues had taught him a few things, only one or two actually useful - Sneaking was one of them. Hawke slowly turned the door knob and then pushed the door open.

It was a study or some type of similar room with couches and a short-legged table in the center. Staves were hung like pieces of art on the wall and some of them glittered in the light that made it through the partially curtained windows. 

“ ...if Hildegard will help...” Anders said low and soft. He leaned heavily on his staff as though it was a crutch; Hawke could see his fatigue and he resisted the impulse to reveal himself, to heal away his aches.

“...careful or else she might…” Hawke couldn’t see her, but he recognized Merrill’s voice. 

Hawke pulled the door closed as he stepped back into the hall, leaving them to huddle in the darkening room.

*

There had been no time to ask Anders or Merrill what they’d been speaking about before dinner. They joined Feynriel and were escorted by slaves to the dining room where once again Melusina sat in wait. There was nothing specific that she said or did after that that raised Hawke’s hackles, but like it was an oncoming storm, he felt the threat of her deep in his bones. Her smug smile did little to assuage his worry, and Feynriel and Anders’ reticence made for an uncomfortable meal. 

Only Merrill was unaffected by the atmosphere, and started eating as soon as a slave finished spooning out the steaming soup. “This looks delicious, thank you!” she called as he continued his way down the table without comment.

“My, you still show such enthusiasm. Aren’t you all so charming.” Instead of the usual gasping enthusiasm in her voice, Melusina’s comment sounded flat. She roused herself slightly to add, “Aren’t you accustomed to such meals?”

From across the table, Feynriel said quickly, "Haute cuisine in Kirkwall leaves a bit to be desired.”

Hawke wondered if the other mage was trying to cover for them. He glanced sideways at Feynriel; his silvery hair mostly been pulled back, but small braids looped forward, hiding his expression. Hawke raised his glass to her and added, “Your meals are always delicious, Magister.”

“In that case I insist that you stay with me longer so you can continue to enjoy them. I saw your petition to the Merchant’s Guild to move your gold from Kirkwall. Are you planning on leaving me so soon, Champion?”

“I didn’t know you’d miss us so much.”

One of her slaves appeared at Hawke’s side to serve him. Hawke thanked him and the slave moved silently to Melusina.

“You’re getting sloppy, Tryphon,” she rebuked her servant, who instantly bowed his head. And then with a movement too sudden for Tryphon to avoid, Melusina jerked her elbow up and the heavy dish flew upward. Soup splashed out of the massive bowl and a horrible cry of pain was quickly drowned out by the clamor of the bowl smashing onto the floor. Hawke jumped out of his seat and Anders pushed his chair back so quickly that it clattered to the ground too. While he dropped down to the writhing servant, Hawke grabbed his staff and in a flash was between them and Melusina. On the other side of the magister’s chair, Merrill stood with roots from her spell already slithering out from under the stones.

“Maker, look at this. Quite the fuss for one slave. Though, it does seem like a succinct summary of this little group, doesn’t it? What do you think, Feynriel?”

Still watching her, Hawke said over his shoulder, “How is he, Anders?”

Melusina made motion with her hand, a jerky twitch of her fingers, and another slave appeared with a long, thin pipe on a platter. She watched with interest as Anders swiftly healed the blistering, boiling skin of the wounded slave. “We have a dearth of spirit healers here. There’s a beauty to it, isn’t there, Champion? Despite its peaceful nature, it still has power.”

“Do you need help, love?”

“No. It’s done.”

“Tryphon, go back into the kitchen,” Melusina ordered and the slave rose unsteadily to his feet. She inhaled deeply from her pipe and exhaled a stream of fragrant smoke. Through the haze she contemplated Hawke, Merrill, and Anders, all who still stood with their staves out. “You can sit and eat, Champion. Stupid, clumsy slaves. The ones from Neverra always are. They breed them poorly there.”

“If Anders hadn’t been here, he could have died! For what?” Merrill spat the words out. “I’ll never understand people like you.”

“There was no lasting harm, was there? You intervened and Tryphon is not permanently damaged.”

“You knew we were going to get involved,” Hawke guessed.

“I suspected,” she corrected.

Merrill was incredulous. “Then why did you have to do it? You hurt him for no reason!”

“Sadism,” Anders snarled and she shook her head.

“You aren’t what I thought,” she said and clicked her nails on her pipe. “You aren't what I thought at all.”

“I’m sorry we disappoint you, Magister.” Hawke said, but she didn’t appear to hear him.

She snorted smoked fretfully, an irritated dragon. “You defeated a Qunari army, you killed the Arishok in single combat, you reclaimed the Deep Roads, you nullified the Circle. Did you achieve these things? Are they all fiction? Could you even do any of the things they say you do?”

“Believe what you want.”

Suddenly her demeanor changed. She put her pipe down quickly and leaned over to put her hand lightly on Hawke’s tense arm. “I apologize, Champion. I am sorry that I upset you. I just don’t understand… You aren’t like us Magisters. You don’t strike, you don’t scheme.”

Hawke shook his head. “I didn’t became the Champion by subterfuge. I don’t know any secrets, I don’t have any spells in my grimoire that you haven’t already mastered.”

“Sit down, Champion. Shall I get you a pipe? Lyde, the Champion wants a pipe!” The smile on her face flattened and she tossed her hair in exasperation. “Do you want me to free him? I will, if that’s what it takes to make you happy. Lyde, get the forms ready. We’ll bring them to the court tomorrow.”

“I think I’m ready to retire, Hawke,” Anders said. “I’ve seen enough tonight.”

“But your meal!” Melusina gestured to the table but Merrill joined them as they went to their rooms. Hawke looked over his shoulder at Feynriel who was spreading a napkin over his lap with his eyes downcast.

*

Someone shook his shoulder, firmly and insistently. Hawke rolled over, taking most of the sheets with him and sat up groggily. “Merrill?” he asked in surprise when he recognized the other mage. She was crouching at the side of the bed with her staff beside her. Her hair flowed in wild waves around her pale face and in the dim moonlight her tattoos almost seemed to swim over her skin.

“We need you. And Anders, but I thought you'd be less angry when I woke you. Does Justice take over at night? Also are you naked under there? It's dark so I won't see anything.”

Under the blankets Hawke's leg was pressed between Anders' and as he shifted, Anders stirred. “Hm? What's wrong, love? Merrill?” Anders lit the candle on the nightstand and fumbled with the throng he used to pull back his hair.

“You were right, Anders,” she said and Hawke turned to his husband in confusion.

“Blood magic, of course,” Anders said darkly. His voice was low with Justice’s disapproval. “I’m just surprised she delayed it this long.”

“Tonight was the catalyst.”

“Since no one tells me anything, I can only guess that you two are talking about Melusina and some very unfortunate slaves,” Hawke said. “Like you were this afternoon.”

“I thought we were being watched,” Anders muttered.

Merrill stood up silently. In the flickering light Hawke saw her nod, then press a finger to her lips. She went quickly to the door and stood by it, peering out of the crack into the hallway. Hawke kicked away the blankets and moved quickly to get dressed. He'd tossed his robes in the wardrobe to keep Magister's slaves from having to pick up after him and he yanked them out, pulling free Anders’ clothes. There was no time for the usual affections of dressing but Hawke managed to get a quick kiss before they joined Merrill.

“You room doesn't have a passage, but the study does.” Merrill’s voice was nearly inaudible. She motioned for them to follow her and then crept to the room next to their bedroom and quietly entered it.

There was a narrow door obscured by a flowering plant. Merrill slid behind it and then opened the door. Her eyes were wide with apprehension and Hawke and Anders followed her, but despite their size they didn’t crash into the vase. Anders silently closed the panel behind him and Merrill flicked her wrist as she cast a spell; the tiny flame in her hand was enough to light up the passage. The servants’ passage was claustrophobically confining and Hawke had to turn sideways around corners to prevent his shoulders from knocking down plaster. They wound through the house, moving down through the levels until Merrill paused in front of another door and knocked on it quietly.

Instantly it opened and Feynriel stepped aside to let them enter. The mage shook his head before Hawke could ask anything, then moved quickly to close the door behind them once they had stepped in. The cluster of people in one of the corners of the room parted slightly as Merrill approached and in the dim light Hawke could see two figures huddled on the ground.

And smell blood.

Hawke recognized the servant who had been burned at dinner - Typhron - and Lyde, with her face drawn and a ghastly shade of gray, crouched over him. Tryphon’s burns had been replaced by lacerations that oozed dark blood. The other was a woman Hawke didn’t recognize from the house staff. Both were pale, both were weak, and when Hawke and Anders quickly dropped to their knees beside them, neither of them looked up.

“Who are-” Hawke started to asked but Merrill held out her hand and he fell silent.

“Please, just heal them,” she pleaded and Anders glanced at Hawke before nodding.  
Anders’ voice was soft and low. “I’m Anders, I’m a spirit healer. Just focus on breathing. There, does that feel better? This is going to take some time, but it won’t hurt. First I’m going to heal your muscles, then the veins and arteries.”

It had been for blood magic, obviously: veins opened through deep punctures. The woman on the floor had been methodically cut by an expert who knew the delicate line between agony and death. Repairing bones, knitting muscle, smoothing skin, it was an intensive job and Hawke’s hands shook as he finished mending the last of the woman’s wounds. He looked at Merrill and Feynriel, then the rest of the gathered servants and said with a tired sigh, “Melusina will know.”

“That’s none of your concern,” Lyde snapped. Her face was tight and her lips pulled into a grimace.

“I’m sorry, Hawke,” Merrill said quickly. “We didn’t want you to know. It’s less dangerous that way.”

“I’ve heard that before,” Hawke said in the same mild tone. He stood up, knees cracking, and again looked over the group clustered around them. “Feynriel, you’re risking more than me.”

“This is something I’ve been doing for a long time now. My abilities have granted us a great deal of protection. I was inspired by your mage underground work, Anders.”

“The farmers outside the city, they take them in?”

Feynriel startled at Hawke’s guess. “Is it obvious?”

He shook his head. “No, but it makes sense. We can be of more help, Feynriel.”

“No. I don’t want to get you involved.”

The slaves didn’t thank them, but Hawke didn’t feel like they deserved it anyway. Merrill led them back to their room and then disappeared into the shadows, leaving Anders and Hawke to stand alone in the silent house.

“This is what you and Merrill were discussing. Justice couldn’t resist another crusade, could he?”

Anders’ shoulders sagged as he sat on the edge of the bed. “What do you want me to do, Hawke? Sit there smiling as she carves up another slave in front of us? These people mean nothing to her - But I thought they meant something to you.”

Hawke retreated in the wake of the accusation. His boot came down on a platter of fruit that had fallen off its pedestal at some point and the dish rang like an alarm until Hawke silenced it. There were no slaves to clean it up. “They do, Anders. You know they do.”

The Chantry, the hot scent of death, the way the Circle had fallen and what Orsino had become by the end of the night. Justice’s blue glow filled the room in a blaze before Anders reigned his anger in.

“We shouldn’t have left them.” Anders said dully. “They need our help.”

Hawke stood over him, frowning gravely. The moonlight was a sickly color, and where it fell on Anders it turned his skin a pallid white. “We’re involved now, whether we - or they - like it or not.”

“And you don’t like it,” Anders accused him and Justice’s rumbling undertone flared again.

He sighed and wandered to the balcony. A breeze ruffled his hair, drying the sweat there, and he could smell the light perfume of the garden below. It was immaculate in the moonlight, more like a picture in a book than a collection of real plants. He turned back around to Anders. “I would have helped you from the start, if you’d let me. You don’t have to do this alone.”

The pause that followed was pregnant with regrets. “I never asked for your forgiveness for that night,” Anders said quietly.

“You didn’t need to. Don’t need to.”

“But you wouldn’t have let me -”

“I don’t know what I would have done.” Hawke’s voice was hard. “But I should have been given a choice.”

“I know. I love you.” The way Anders said it, testing and uncertain as though it was a question instead of a statement made Hawke’s heart break again.

“I love you, too.”

A pale blush of light began to spread across the sky. Anders stood up and stared across the room at Hawke. “The city will be waking up. If we’re going to help them, it needs to be now. Will you come with me?”

When he held out his hand, Hawke took it. They raced down the stairs, shattering the glyphs on the floor and door. They were both momentarily disoriented by the blue lights that lined the streets. Glyphs or the Veil breaking? Hawke wondered but didn’t have time to ask before Anders pulled him forward. Down past the Circle, the alienage, the marketplace they ran. The sky was brightening and already there were noises around them. Hawke jerked Anders to a stop and dragged him into an alley. “Hear that?” he asked breathlessly.

“What? People are getting up - We need to hurry.”

“It doesn’t sound like Lowtown did in the morning. Something’s wrong.”

Anders cocked his head. “You’re right. Let’s go.”

The sun was cresting over the mountains by the time they got to the gate. There were people there but Hawke slowed and then stopped before they got to close - It wasn’t the slaves. He reached back for Anders’ hand and debated their next move.

They were mages - he could feel it - but instead of robes, the guards were in full armor with swords at their sides instead of a staff at their back. Dragons were engraved on their chest plates and the helmets had wings on the side. They surrounded Hawke and Anders and when one of the guards grabbed Hawke's arm, her gauntlets dug into his skin like talons.

“We aren’t prisoners here, are we?” he asked mildly.

“Magister Melusina sent us to intercept you,” she answered. The cluster of guards by the gates parted and Feynriel and Merrill were released. “Hawke,” Merrill cried and ran toward him.

“Merrill, what happened?”

“It was a trap, Hawke.”

Feynriel’s hair was a mess around his face and there were dark circles under his eyes. “She’s planning something in the arena. I think it’s an auto-da-fé. Hawke, you need to leave now. I don’t know what she’s planning, but it involves you.”

“She took the slaves?” he asked and Feynriel and Merrill nodded.

“Then I’m not leaving without them. Anders?”

“I’m with you, Hawke.”

“Well,” he said to the guard. “Lead on, then.”

It was another parade through the streets. The people on the streets moved to the side when Hawke strolled past and he caught glimpses of curious onlookers peering out from their windows and even standing on the balconies, gossiping with each other as their slaves tried not to stare. But the streets seemed empty around those few clusters of people.

More guards joined the group, clanking in time with Hawke's steps. It was a music that beat out all other sounds and most of Hawke's thoughts. It was instinct that kept his senses piqued and muscle tense. There was a battle waiting at the end of their journey – There always was. And like he'd felt when Bethany had lain at the gnarled feet of the ogre, or when they stood in the Keep with the Viscount's head bleeding at their feet, or even at the Gallows with Meredith's scarlet blade pointed at his neck. Varric had called him dogged, said it no surprised, considering his Fereldan upbringing. But it was a determination bred from exhaustion and not heroics.

He unfastened the top of his robe and yanked the collar down. The movement startled the guards on his heels and he heard the sharp rattle of swords being withdrawn.

“Just like old times,” he said to Anders, who didn't return his smile. Merrill’s tense face didn't look away from the white street that stretched out bare in front of them. He followed her gaze to the banners that flew as high as birds above the roofs of the city. It had to be the amphitheater and from the roar that rushed down the street to meet them, it sounded like where the entire city was, too. “Apparently she likes an audience.”

“What are we going to do?” Anders asked. He looked back at the guards and tightened his grip on his staff.

“When do I ever have a plan?”

There were crowds milling around the entrances of the amphitheater and the surged forward to meet Hawke's procession. Over the noise of their cheering and jeering came the shouts of the guards and a path was shoved clear. Behind Hawke, Merrill, and Anders, their escorts pushed them forward, driving them through the gates, into the shadows of the amphitheaters tunnels, and then into the brilliant sunlight once again as they were channeled into the expanse of the arena.

The size of it and the sound that crashed through it was stunning and Hawke looked around in open-mouthed awe at it. It was massive in a way that Hawke had never experienced before; even the huge cityscapes of the Deep Roads were capped and constrained by the rocky ceilings but in the arena, the huge walls of seats seemed to stretch into the blue oblivion of the sky. There were levels of seats, all filled, and the ones directly in front of Hawke, Anders, and Merrill were built more like thrones. Well suited for the magister who ruled there. Magister Mesulina was flanked by other mages in gloriously luxurious robes. Even the cloth stretched over their crowned heads to block the white brilliance of the sun was tasseled and draped with jewels. But it was fear and anger that Hawke sensed, cutting through the atmosphere like a wound. The Veil was thin and cracked, and seemed to pulsate along with the noise from the crowd.

Directly below those seats in the white dirt of the arena floor, chained together and clad in long white tunics were Hildegard, the Templars, and Melusina’s slaves.

“You are a fraud, serah.” Melusina’s voice cut through the noise like a sword. “Either you are an imposter, sullying Champion Hawke's name, or you are a fabrication, created to spread lies. Either way I denounce you, Tristan Hawke, and your sycophants. You have no power in Marothius or anywhere in Tevinter.”

“I don't care what you think of me, Magister.” He stepped forward and gestured at her prisoners. “Let them go!”

“You come to our city and abuse the trust we placed in you. I welcomed you into my own house and how do you repay my generosity? You plot behind my back with slaves. Slaves, serah, crawling in the dark like a rat. You brought the Chantry spy to help you spread unrest and disobedience, all under the pretense of heroism.”

She raised her head up to shout to the crowd, “This man wants to destroy our city, our country! He is our enemy, and has been since he lied his way through the gates. It is only because you are a mage that you aren't imprisoned like these heretics are. Because I am a gracious ruler, I will let you leave Marothius with your life and your mage companions.”

The crowd roared, the wave of sound rushing with all the fury of a storm. But it wasn't cheering and the while those in the seat immediately surrounding Melusina were applauding, Hawke wondered how much support she truly had from the rest of the populous. A revolution churned under the enforced order, as it had with the Qunari and then with Kirkwall's mages. Again Hawke was caught in it and it twisted tight around him. Blood and death and sorrow, legacies that followed him like a shadow. But as much as he wanted to avoid the fight, Hawke's refusal to surrender was stronger.

"Let them go!" he repeated, roaring the words. "I'll stand for this abuse no longer!" 

“I said you have no power here, Hawke! No authority, no say in our politics!” Melusina was nearly shrieking and her long staff shook in her fists. It was only when the mage to her left bent over her that she made an effort to compose herself. “Guards keep this man silent! Feynriel, you have a moment to choose your side - don’t test my benevolence!”

“Don't get involved,” Anders warned the guards that turned on them. Beside him, Merrill raised her staff and added, “You don't want to fight us.”

“You do realize that never works,” Hawke joked grimly. That was all the time he had before the guards attacked and the noise from the crowd was a roar loud enough to shake the ground.

Merrill's twisting roots cracked the ground as they grabbed the guards. One of them cast a fireball as he was swallowed; Ser Roncelin's scream melted into the crackling flames as he dropped to the ground. Hildegard ran to him but another fireball sent her and her mages scattering into the smoke. Hawke killed the guards with grim efficiency. A force spell shattered bones, a crackle of lightning ruptured organs. Blood pooled, then was absorbed as if the sand were drinking it.

Anders grabbed his arm briefly when they found each other; his healing spell was a wave of cool blue energy that healed the burns on Hawke's hands and face. The touch of the spell didn't dissipate and fear flashed through Hawke - Anders or Justice was pulling magic from the Fade. If it tore, the demons that frothed on the other side would flood out.

Each swing of the guards’ swords cut and cast a spell simultaneously; Hawke ducked out away from the slash of steel only to be scalded by the fire that followed. He summoned a shield of stone and dirt from the ground, then sent it crashing through the wall of guards. As they struggled to their feet he unleashed a series of force spells – pulling them into a group, crushing them against the torn earth, then flinging them wildly away to bash against the wall of the arena.

Hawke ran to Hildegard and dragged her to her feet. Smoke and dust rose in billowing cloud but they found Laclan, Aimery, and Damase, and Hawke shattered their chains. “Get swords!” he ordered, kicking one of the guards' weapons toward them. “Stay together!”

The slaves’ restraints were smashed next and Tryphon seized the woman next to him and started running - Hawke didn’t wait to see where they went. Someone stabbed him, the blade sliding easily through his robe, his skin, stomach, kidneys, spine, and he dropped to the ground, grasped frantically at his magic to stitch up the wound, shoved himself to his feet.

A blast of wind suddenly swept the air clean and Hawke could see the faltering row of guards dead and wounded that had fallen around Merrill and Anders. Hawke shouted through the blood in his mouth at Melusina and her underlings. “You can stop this, Magister! Call them off and let us go!”

She leaned over the edge of her balcony and screamed back at him, but it was excitement that rang from her voice. “Yes! You are the Champion of Kirkwall!”

In an instant, shades were drawn up through the sand. The screaming in the arena echoed ten-fold, a hundred-fold through the crowd. She had to have realized the shades had gotten into the stands - Hawke could hear bones being torn out of flesh, sinews stripped away from muscle - but Melusina only called more of them from the Fade and the bloody chaos continued.

“More! Demons next, Champion!” she screamed and Hawke felt the tear in the Veil like a bolt of lightning. The rage demons roared as they were drawn out of the Fade - Reaching, grabbing, burning things that swarmed on Hawke as he called forth his own magic. Over their flames was Melusina, her staff help triumphantly over her head as the Fade vomited more monsters.

“Get your backs to the wall!” Hawke ordered the remaining Templars. He couldn’t see Hildegard in the scrambling mass of people, but there was no time to search. “Merrill! Anders!”

A forest of roots erupted out of the ground and opened enough for Merrill to peer out. “Hawke!” she yelled out. “She’s killing people in the stands!”

“Try to block her! Where’s Anders?”

“Is this the best you can do, Champion? I know your secret! I know what you are!” Melusina roared over the din and scarlet waves of her magic blanketed the arena. She reached for something behind her and pulled out Lyde. The elf swayed heavily on her feet for a moment for Melusina raised her staff. “You have the Fade inside you, that’s how you were able to do it! You lied to me, Hawke! No secrets, you claimed. No spells!  
Merrill pointed before twisting away for another attack and Hawke ran in a quick sprint, tearing up the ground in huge chasms to swallow the demons that smoldered behind him. He got to Anders again and grabbed his arm, but when Anders turned it was Justice who stared back.

“No, Anders, stay calm. Anders, please - If they find out -”

“How did you do it, Hawke? I want to know! Tell me how you did it and I’ll free everyone!”

Hawke shoved Anders behind him and blasted another spell at the army of monsters that streamed forward. “Shit. Anders, stay with me. She’s trying to goad you. We have to get out of here.”

“How do you host a demon without becoming an abomination? How did you of all mages discover this while all my tests have failed? Look, Hawke, I can bind demons, but what is that to having a door to the Fade inside of you?”

She raised her staffed and drove the end of it into Lyde. Out of the spouting blood a portal opened, ripping and spilling until it was large enough for a pride demon to force itself through. The gray sky turned black and the darkness smothered the arena’s seats. The demon crashed down to the arena floor dragging the blackness with it. It landed and raised its massive hand up for Melusina to step over the railing and onto its palm.

“She is a plague!” Justice shouted. “Vile creature, how dare you pollute this world!”

The white flames that blasted from his body made Hawke stumble back. In that bright light he was able to see Merrill and other mages fighting against demons.

But then Melusina’s shrieked pierced the throbbing pain in his head. “It wasn’t you at all! I thought the Champion – But no, it was your lover all this time. Sneaky, sneaky Hawke! A liar and a thief, some champion you are!”

Justice opened his own portal to the Fade and light pooled below him. Waves of it crashed against the demon, who screamed in pain and rage. In its hand, Melusina nearly toppled but she slammed her staff through its hand to steady herself. The moment was enough for Hawke to cast his own spell - a crack of lightning that dropped her to her knees as the demon spasmed.

Merrill ran over, face bloody and much of her robe burnt away. Behind her he saw Feynriel, two Templars flanking him to lash out at the demons that came too close. There were other mages coming and he looked wildly to the walls of the arena were people were dropping out of the blackness and onto the sand, their staves shining like beacons.

“Together!” Hawke shouted. “We need to stop her before she gets to Justice!”

Melusina’s demon shrieked and stamped forward, crushing shades and guards alike as it ran. Hawke called more lightning, then waves of scorching fire that turned the sand into glass. Beside him Justice’s sea of energy grew, swallowing Melusina’s spells.  
She was close enough for Hawke to see her eyes when she suddenly raised her staff again.

“No!” Hawke yelled but she plunged it into herself as she laughed. The blood was a river and it ran in rivets through Justice’s circle of light. Justice’s blue glow turned into streaks as something began pulling the spirit.

“Anders! Justice!” Without thinking Hawke flung himself onto Justice as her blood muddied his magic. He was aware of the spirit screaming - or maybe he was screaming himself from the burning intensity of Justice’s power. And then, in the noise of those screams came a voice.

“Hawke! Don’t you dare die on me, Hawke!” Merrill’s voice was as clear as a bell through the chaos. “Listen to me Hawke, I’m coming!”

It was impossible to tell if his eyes were open or closed, or maybe they’d been burnt out of their sockets by the intensity of Justice’s power. Someone – something - was tugging, pulling, wrenching his arms back but Hawke forced them back with the last spell his body had stamina for.

“Trust me, Hawke!”

“I do!”

“Justice, if you don’t trust me, trust Hawke. Melusina is going to use you to bring a new cataclysm to this world; through you she’ll have permanent access to the Fade. We can stop it, but only together.”

The pain was subsiding, or maybe the fire had just destroyed his nerves. Hawke somehow managed to look into Justice’s face and the spirit gazed down at him. “Yes,” Justice’s voice boomed. “We will trust you.”

“It’s a Keeper’s job to save her clan.”

The intensity of it blotted everything else from existence. There was a rush of air - only it wasn’t air, it was magic or maybe the Fade itself - but it was as strong and as cold as wind from a mountain and it swept away the noise, the pain, the arena, and all the thoughts that Hawke had ever had. His hands opened and arms peeled away from Justice, and his back straightened, legs uncurled. His body was moving around him; he was a strange spectator to his own life which had never been as vivid or brilliant or horrific. His hand reached for staff and when he lifted it, from deep inside himself Hawke could see the sky open.

Around them Feynriel, the Templars, and other mages renewed their attack on Melusina and the pride demon that towered over them. Justice healed their scorched hands, their shattered legs, sped each attack so that their weapons were a blur against the colors of the mages’ spells.

Tyana’s face was wet with blood. Ser Laclan fought with one arm while the other hung limply at his side. Tryphon could only open a single eye but still fired arrow after arrow into the demon’s side. Melusina’s demon faltered then fell backward as the Magister howled. When she cast her own maelstrom of fire, Justice’s shield of light flared like a burst of lightning, protecting them. Finally, she fell down exhausted as they advanced, and when Feynriel summoned shards of glass from the ground and shot them at her, she could do little more than lift her hand in defense.

When she died, the sky above them seemed to inhale. Justice swept up the remains of the demons and the scraps of shades, and flung them into the white oblivion of the Fade. And then he took Hawke’s hand.

It was the strangest sensation, being in and then being out, moved from nothingness to material again. Hawke stared at the hand holding his own - which was whole, not burnt or even scarred - and then followed the arm up to look Justice in the face. It wasn’t Anders this time, but a figure in a set of heavy armor, helmet concealing its face.

“You defeated her.” Hawke said when he found his voice and the sound of it affected the dim ocean of the Fade that they were standing it, making shapes grow and solidify around them.

“You defended them,” Justice corrected. “Many more would have died if you hadn’t given so much of yourself to protect them. You’re so different than Anders in some ways. He is a sword, you are a shield. I’d forgotten what it was like to uphold instead of destroy.”

He was fading and the grip on Hawke’s hand loosened. “No, wait, stay with me. You can inhabit my body. Justice, don’t leave.”

“I did that to Anders and it almost destroyed us both. Through Anders I loved you and I will cherish that, wherever I go next. Whatever happens.”

“No, you can’t - ”

“Hawke!” Merrill’s voice tugged at his consciousness.

It was like trying to hold water. Justice slipped out of Hawke’s arms as he tried to grab onto the spirit, and took the whole world with him. Hawke fell backwards, still calling Justice’s name, and he was only dimly aware of hitting the ground before even that thought flickered away.

*

“Hey, brother. Brother! Tristan I know you’re alive. You’re alive, dammit, you have to be alive. Maker’s breath, open your eyes.”

It was Carver leaning over him. Two Carvers, swimming back and forth in his field of vision and though Hawke blinked and squinted, nothing improved. His tongue filled his mouth - or it might have been blood, or loose teeth, or a lung or two. When he turned his head to the side, another set of people appeared, pulling stoppers of potion bottles. It took a long moment for grasping at vague memories until he was able to recognize Varric and he grinned at his old friend.

“I can’t be dead,” Hawke told Varric,“unless the Maker has a sick sense of humor. Shouldn’t there be more naked women?”

“He’s in bad shape, Carver. We gotta get him out of here.”

“Don’t write about this part,” Hawke said firmly. “Or do, but make it more heroic. Griffons. Add griffons for Merrill.”

“I’ll get Merrill, you take Hawke. Hey, Templar! Help Blondie over here and if he doesn’t get out of here alive I’ll kick your ass so hard they’ll feel it in the Fade.”

“That’s Ser Damase. Not bad for a Templar.” Hawke told Carver who was staring at something over Hawke’s shoulder. Hawke tried to sit up but apparently every bone in his body was broken. “Maybe I am dead. Have fun being the scion of the Hawke family, Carver. I hope you’re better at it than I was.”

“Don’t die,” Carver said and his voice caught in his throat.

*

He woke up to an undulating whiteness that persisted when he closed his eyes again. Concussion, he thought, and tried to raise his hand to his head. But his fingers were impossibly heavy and after clumsily fumbling them toward his temple, they started to shake so badly that casting a spell was hopeless.

Someone caught his hand as it fell back to his side. “Tristan, love, stay still.”

Anders, thank the Maker, thank Andraste, thank Fen’Harel or anyone else. “I’m all right,” he said then coughed and tried again, in a slightly louder whisper, “if you’re all right, I’m all right.”

Anders lay next to him, he wrapped Hawke in his arms and then pressed his face hard into Hawke’s neck. He stroked Hawke’s shoulder and then moved his hand down to press the Arishok’s scar like he was mending the wound, all these years later. A slow, confused realization dawned - Anders was crying but it was impossible for Hawke to puzzle it out. He wasn’t aware of falling asleep but then he opened his eyes again the whiteness of the world had turned to a darker shade of gray. This time when tried to heal himself, his hand mostly obeyed and when he touched his brow magic came grudgingly to his call. A pressure he hadn’t even been conscious of subsided and the room came into focus.

Hawke lurched upright as the memory of the battle flooded forth. He grabbed his chest, trying to heal the horrific aching, but there was nothing but pain and emptiness. His heart was gone and there was a gaping maw of a hole there as empty of Justice’s void.

“Hawke!” Anders shoved away the dark sheets and grasped Hawke’s hands to pull them away from where they dug into his shirt.

Hawke flung his arms around him and squeezed his eyes shut, but the tears were uncontrollable. “Justice! I’m so sorry Anders, I’m so sorry. I tried to hold onto him. I love you - I’m sorry.”

“It’s so quiet in my head; I don’t know how to think anymore in all this quiet. He was part of me! He was part of me.”

He wept as Hawke held him. Hawke’s own eyes were red and swollen and as his magic dripped slowly back to him, he gently healed both of them, lifting their headaches, clearing their eyes. They were back in their room in Melusina’s house but the pale gray light that filtered through the curtains could have been from any time of day. Hawke wondered how long he’d been out but until Anders unclenched from around him, he didn’t consider moving or getting up.

Finally there was a quiet tapping on the door and Merrill’s soft voice drifted into the room. “Hawke? Anders? I want to - May I come in?”

Hawke cleared his throat before answering. “Merrill, yes, come in. Maker’s breath, Merrill, come in.”

She came in slowly but when Hawke held his arms out to her she ran to him and jumped into the bed. “You’re alive! Oh I was so afraid I’d killed you both. Melusina was pulling Justice out and I thought - I thought if I put him in you, Hawke, maybe I could stop her. Did it hurt? Are you hurt, Anders?”

Another voice called from the hall. “Merrill? I brought you a sandwich… Merrill?” Carver peered into the room and then dropped the plate onto the ground. “Brother! You idiot, we thought you were dead.”

“Carver!” Hawke tried to climb over Merrill but his head spun and he fell backwards onto the mattress. Carver rushed over and grabbed his hand to pull him back up with a strong yank. “Varric’s here, too?”

“Yeah, but don’t call him. Me walking in on this threesome was enough.” Carver shoved pillows and the blanket onto the ground and made a seat for himself on the bed. “I swear, I leave you for a month and look what you do. Maker’s breath, I don’t even know what you did.”

“That’s all right,” Varric said cheerfully from the door. “I’ll make something up.”

Feynriel wandered in after that, then Sister Hildegard, then a few of the slaves who’d come back to collect their belongings before leaving the city. Hawke glanced worriedly at Anders, but his husband had composed himself for their audience. Other mages walked in the courtyard below and Hawke dragged himself to the window to see Ser Aimery limp toward Melusina’s battered throne and sit slowly down with a grunt.

“What happened?” he asked Feynriel when some of the activity of the house finally quieted.

The other mage laughed and swirled the water in his glass. “You ask me like you weren’t in the center of it. Melusina knew about the slaves. I don’t think she really cared for the lost property, but it was another point against you. So when you refused to share Justice with her, she used whatever she could against you to force you to call on him.”

“Poor Lyde,” Hawke sighed and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. “I should’ve done more to prevent this. How is the Archon going to respond?”

Feynriel sighed and rested his head in his hands. “The Archon might denounce her to prevent the other magisters from getting ideas - She used blood magic against the Laetans in the crowd, you know. As far as the slaves go, I believe he’ll let the ones who survived go free, either by officially allowing them into the Liberati or simply turning a blind eye to their escape.”

“That progressive, is he?”

He grimaced. “If he does, it’ll be another way to dissuade the magisters. He might try to woo you into Minrathous, Hawke. What are you going to do?”

Hawke looked to where his husband was sitting with Varric and Musa. The girl was eating grapes and throwing them at the dwarf when she thought he wasn’t looking. Anders watched idly but Hawke could see that his thoughts were elsewhere. His chest ached again and he reached over with a shaking hand for the pitcher of water. Pouring himself a glass was wet work but he finally was able to drink and the tightness in his throat loosened. “Maybe the Anderfels, see if I can meet my in-laws.”

“I’m actually looking forward to returning to Minrathous,” Feynriel admitted. “There’s someone there I’m looking forward to seeing again. I mean, I can meet him in the Fade, but it’s not the same thing. You know, Hawke, maybe you should come with me. All three of you. And Carver and Varric, if they want.”

His robes brushed softly on the stones as he leaned forward, and his eyes were wide and earnest. “Tevinter isn’t just what you’ve seen, Hawke. There’s so much more that I wish I could show you. But there is blood in the water - the blood of slaves and even our own. But the Chantry is wrong - Magic shouldn’t be contained. It needs to flow freely, and then we can purify it.”

They talked more about what the other magisters were going to do and how the city was going to cope with their destroyed arena and sudden departure of slaves. When Sister Hildegard approached, Feynriel excused himself.

She was no longer in a Chantry robe, but instead wore a plain dress with a sensible shawl over her shoulders. She moved haltingly and Hawke realized that under her skirt she was missing a foot, though she wasn’t using a crutch for support. He helped her into a seat and she smiled, but more over his shoulder than at him.

“I wasn’t wrong to fear magic,” she told him gravely and he shook his head.

“Magic saved you.”

She rubbed her palms on her skirt. “I kept repeating the Chant when we were… in the arena. But I was still so scared of death.”

“Not surprising.”

“I’m not as faithful as I’d hoped I be.” Before he could say anything to that, she added quickly, “I’m going to keep trying, though. I’m going to go back to the Free Marches and visit the other Circles. I want to bring more people to Tevinter, mages like the ones from Ansburg and like you. And other sisters and Templars.”

He studied her for a moment and then smiled. “You asked me before what I wanted,” he said and she nodded. “I want to be able to choose.”

“Choose what? How people see you?”

He shrugged and slipped his hands into his pockets where his fingers curled around the dry pits of old olives. The woman in the marketplace had never contacted him, or something had made her letter go astray. It meant venturing out into the city, but Hawke didn’t want to leave broken promises along with the rubble.

“You aren’t going to help?”

“I didn’t say that. But I still have a honeymoon to go on.”

Over the following days, people drifted back to their routines. He couldn’t see it from Melusina’s estate but Hawke could hear the echoing sounds of construction and Varric reported that the dwarven Mason Guild had taken control of the amphitheater’s reconstruction, which had something to do with a shady, back alley deal involving tax avoidance, liquidated damages, and some other phrases that Hawke didn’t care to understand. The Chantry had a mass pyre for everyone that had been killed in the pandemonium. Feynriel asked Hawke to accompany him to ensure that the Chantry included the slaves and Templars, so he left Anders with Varric and sat listlessly through the service. Some of the Laetans he’d met at Melusina’s party approached him cautiously, probably expecting him to attempt to fill the Magister’s place. He disappointed them like he’d disappointed Melusina.

It took him longer than he wanted to spend away from Anders, but with a mabari’s determination he tracked down the olive merchant to a tavern and dropped a bag of coins into her lap. “For the olives. With interest.”

Someone offered him a drink and a few others had demanding questions, but Hawke held up his hands and made a weak apology as he escaped. Feynriel caught up to him outside.

“It was all Varric’s money,” Hawke confessed and Feynriel laughed for the first time in days.

When they returned to the estate, they followed the sound of voices to the kitchen, were platters of fruit and bread had been spread over stacks of papers. Hawke wrapped an arm around Anders’ waist and then bent down to squint at the documents. Half of it was in Tevene and the other half the strange language of lawyers.

“Consuetudo pro lege servatur.” Anders pronounced and from across the table Varric snorted.

“You keep saying that like this time I’ll understand you, Blondie.”

“Something Varric doesn’t know?” Carver exclaimed sarcastically.

“Blood magic and litigation,” Anders said with a sigh. “I knew Tevinter was evil, but I had no idea how bad it could be. Welcome back, sweetheart. Feel like reading a contract? Do you think Melusina was compos mentis?”

“Res ipsa loquitur,” Feynriel said.

They nodded at each other and Varric snorted again and shoved the scroll he was reading into a bowl of grapes. “In my expert opinion, it’s too dry. Where’s the romance? The drama?”

“Lawsuits can be dramatic,” Feynriel murmured, but he dropped his paper, too. “These are proposals for officially freeing Melusina’s slave and repossessing her property. If you stay here, Hawke, you could petition for her assets to be put under your control.”

“Interested, Anders?” When Anders shook his head, Hawke said, “Merrill, you have the power to back up a claim, if you want to make it.”

She frowned as she contemplated his offer. “I don’t know if Dalish can own houses.”

Flinging Tevene phrases over Varric’s head got them through dinner. A sense of routine was established, but mostly they stayed around the estate, and mostly Hawke and Anders stayed in bed. Feynriel made plans to join his master in Minathrous and left with some of the Ansburg mages and Templars. Sister Hildegard and Ser Aimery bought back their cart and joined Tryphon as he went south.

“I’m thinking Nevarra,” Varric said. “Whole new market over there.”

“I’m staying,” Merrill announced and Carver nodded along. “I think I’m going to teach. Or maybe I’m going to study. I haven’t worked that out yet. You know there’s an opening for a new magister. It’d be like something out of Varric’s stories if I took Melusina’s place, wouldn’t it?”

Hawke pulled both of them into an embrace. "By the way, Carver, did anyone tell you that I got married?”

Carver gaped at him. “Well, it doesn’t count,” he said as he shook his hand. “It wasn’t in a Chantry. And besides,” he said to Anders, shaking his hand too, “I don’t want any more brothers. One’s bad enough.”

“Thanks Carver,” Anders said.

As they stood outside of the city walls, Varric let out a low whistle. “I don’t know how you do it, Hawke.”

“Me neither,” said Anders.

“Well next time, don’t do it without me.” Varric sniffed and pulled out a small notebook. “Look at this, hardly any good material at all for all that time traveling with Carver. It was always ‘Tristan this’ and ‘Tristan that.’” He shoved it back into his belt. “So, plans?”

Hawke slid his arm over Anders’ shoulders and kissed him. “That was my plan.”

“I’ll think of something better when I write it down,” Varric told them.

By the time night fell, the city was just a spot on the horizon. They made a fire, even though it made them a target, and Varric volunteered for the first watch. Anders and Hawke spread their bedrolls by a broken column and lay as close together as they could get. Hawke kissed the underside of Anders’ jaw and when Anders sighed, sat up so he could see into his face.

“All right?”

“I’m trying. I feel like this body is too big. Emptiness and silence.” Anders looked up into the sky at the spray of stars. “But he suffered more than I ever did. Trapped in a corpse, then with me - It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t just.”

“He didn’t regret it,” Hawke said slowly as the threads of the memory weaved together. “You were able to show him more than he could have ever known in the Fade.”

“Do you think he was able to return? Where do spirits go when they die?” He reached over and rested his hand against Hawke’s cheek, stroking the corner of his mouth with the pad of his thumb. “And where are we going?”

“So you’re sticking with me, then?”

Anders chuckled. “I did marry you. Or at least I pseudo-married a man named Garrett.”

“Let’s do it again, then. And Varric can read his speech. Bet there are great jokes.” He ran his hand over Anders’ side then settled on his hip. Anders rolled his pelvis invitingly and when he had breath for talking again, Hawke had forgotten what it was they were discussing. “How about the Anderfels?” he asked as Anders pulled the blankets up around them. “See the Wardens?”

“Or Orlais,” Anders suggested. “Just think of the trouble you’d cause there.”

“Ei incumbit probatio qui dicit,” Hawke said with his best Tevinter accent. “Or we can see what’s farther west than that.”

“Yes,” said Anders. 

“Was that a vote for Orlais or for the hinterlands?”

“Yes,” he repeated.

“Fine with me.” Hawke reached over and kissed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Consuetudo pro lege servatur - custom is held as law (ie, in law, where there are no specific laws, the matter should be decided by custom [wikipedia]) 
> 
> compos mentis - of sound mind
> 
> Res ipsa loquitur - the thing itself speaks (ie, in law, elements of duty of care and breach can sometimes be inferred from the very nature of an accident or other outcome, even without direct evidence of how any defendant behaved [wikipedia])
> 
> Ei incumbit probatio qui dicit - he burden of proof is on he who declares (ie, in law, the presumption of innocence [wikipedia])

**Author's Note:**

> magophony -  
> English  
> Noun  
> (rare) The slaughter of magi or priests


End file.
